Surprise
by Mirwalker
Summary: Exploring an unsolved mystery from the series, this collection of moments begins roughly a year before Season One.
1. Prologue

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

 _Exploring an unsolved mystery from the_ Starz _TV series, this series of moments begins about one year before Season One._

* * *

 **Prologue**

The smack of his head against the dark alley wall did not detract at all from the clear, complementary message of the cool blade at his throat.

"What the hell are you up to?" the taller figure asked with a matching vocal force.

"Only following you, Mister Bones… Seeing where you was goin'. No harm done, right?" he lied, acutely aware of the ache and chill he was certainly feeling.

"I should think it clear now that I _well_ _know_ you were following me. I want to know why. Who for?"

"Just watchin', honest… for some of me sisters at Noonan's."

The knife was lowered, but not sheathed; and he was pulled into a patch of moonlight, but not released.

The lean _Walrus_ sailor looked him over thoroughly, sizing up the younger lad's physical ability and his honesty. "You were at the beach when we landed this afternoon. And then at the warehouse. And you were just watching us at supper in the tavern. Piss poor sneak," he concluded, before realizing, "I know you…"

"I'm Sebastian, Mister Bones," the captive volunteered, much heartened to be recognized. "Apprentice to Mister Gillespie, the…"

"…Shipwright," Billy completed, making the full connection. "What possible interest could I be to any of you?" What indeed could the brothel master and drunkard ship repairer want from him?

"Just curious, honestly." The boy's nervous excitement suggested his sincerity, though he still hadn't actually explained.

"Why? Why me? What about?"

Slowly, so as not to seem threatening, Sebastian reached back and felt the growing bump on his head. Not doubting for a moment that the pirate could, and would, gift more of the same if displeased, he upped his own generosity. "Me and some of the girls, well we noticed that, unlike most of your crew—unlike _most_ men in town really, you and your captain never visit the brothel. Captain Flint, he heads inland; so perhaps he's got someone there. But you've no ring on your finger, or missus you've mentioned; and yet even today, flush with your latest prize, still you don't spend no time or tender beyond the tavern… No problem, o' course. Just a bit… uncommon is all."

Billy looked annoyed by the story, if actually made so more by the apparent attention and deduction it evidenced. "Given the flood of lonely men across these shores, it's not like Noonan could be hurting for my coin in particular. And I'll spend it _and_ my time as I choose; my business is my own…"

Sebastian nodded agreeably, both genuinely and knowing better than to contradict.

Billy shifted his posture and squinted, wondering beyond the man in charge. "Do the girls really pay every crew so much heed, as to notice and miss me?"

Sebastian hesitated, considering his words carefully. "Let's just say that, while every customer's bits are appreciated the same in that house, not every _customer_ is."

"What?"

For the first time in their brief, tense interaction, Sebastian actually squirmed, fearing the reaction to his next honest sharing. "Well, you see, most pirates in these parts ain't the… prettiest of people."

Billy just stared at him, as if the message or messenger was daft.

"Many at Noonan's judge you a rare exception to that rule, if you don't mind me sayin'," Sebastian spelled it out bit by bit, nervous for the possible response. "In truth, there's more than one who wishes you _would_ visit."

The pirate's grim stare softened considerably at the apparent and surprise compliment, before he cast a newly confused look at its payer. "And what's your interest in this, then?"

Sebastian held his hands up, assuring, "I'm just asked to solve the mystery of what's more enticing than them, pretty and available as they are…"

"Not just where else my coin is going?" Billy guessed.

"I'd be lyin' if I said that weren't a curiosity too. Nassau ain't that big, sir. So you can appreciate everyone's concern at what successful competition there might be…"

"Perhaps I'm into opium. Had you considered that?" Billy suggested with a scoff, suddenly and somehow feeling accused. "Or maybe I find my comfort in a bottle? Or prefer the company of my own thoughts. Your 'sisters' aren't a man's only options. And perhaps some of us, we look beyond a night's oft-shared fancy—no offense, and have larger, longer plans. Not that mine's any of your business, or theirs, shipmaker's _apprentice_ …"

Reminded of his lowly status, the young man's look shifted from intrigued surprise to literally downtrodden, his eyes settling on the still firm grip on his shoulder. "I'll be sure to remind them of that, sir," he promised quietly. "If you'd be so kind…"

Certain he'd heard, and hoping he'd said, enough, Billy loosed the apparently harmless and hapless messenger.

Sebastian straightened his shirt, tested his freed shoulder, and assured his liberator, "I didn't mean to cause no trouble, sir, truly. In fact, if presented the chance, I was to extend you the warmest invitation to visit, whenever you like…"

"Such pleasantries are more pleasant when made in person and in daylight," Billy suggested, hands on his hips. "Run along now, remember it, and tell them so." Signaling the conversation was over, and the sneak was no threat, he turned and headed back toward the main street.

"Mister Bones?" the boy called after him, recovering some of his cheer.

Billy stopped, an over-the-shoulder glance all the attention he was willing to spare.

"Lest you think ill of me, whatever your intentions for Noonan's…" He held up a small leather bag.

 _My coin purse!_ Billy realized, tapping his empty pocket as he turned in place. The moment it took him to catch the gently flying satchel was just enough head start for the now-no longer-thief to dash into the darkness. Nassau and the night swallowed him up instantly.

Swiftly counting his coins, Billy sighed to find nothing missing beyond a bit of his pride. He wondered when the quick fellow youth had been able to lift it off him, and why he had done so, only to return it intact. Actually, Billy grinned for the first time in the entire exchange, the message was fairly obvious: Sebastian wanted him to know that he _could_ take it, but that he didn't _want_ it. A worthy non-foe indeed.

* * *

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	2. Proper Introductions

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **1\. Proper Introductions**

At the east end of the beach, opposite Fort Nassau, the hodgepodge of crew encampments was punctuated by a last, large and permanent structure before the village gave way entirely to rock and undergrowth. After the occasionally used church and the always busy Guthrie warehouse, Gillespie Shipwright & Chandlery was the largest wooden structure on this part of the island.(1) A few of the inland plantations had sizeable barns or storehouses; but few folks in town ventured there to see or know, and vice-versa. And after Guthrie's tavern and Noonan's house of hospitality, it also competed with the church as the next most frequented facility.

Most of its bulk was a high, open-sided workshop extending down to and slightly over the waterline. Between it and the wilds were piles of timber, boat scraps and other marine miscellany. The end of the building nearer town was an enclosed, two-story box, of a style and construction somewhere between the ramshackle tents on the beach, and the stately stucco and tile of the finer folk beyond the sands. Balancing large and open, wet and dry, rough and refined, it made a fitting boundary for the pirate town.

As he approached, Billy Bones wondered whether the building and the builder had ever actually built a ship here in Nassau. The island had no trees large enough for masts; and not enough of good types for keel and hull. Even if lumber was imported, the shoreline here was not deep enough, and the workshop roof was not tall enough to float or frame anything that could or should set out to the open sea. Good thing he'd only come for supplies, and perhaps some information.

Hoping to get a sense of the enclosed space before engaging its occupants, Billy was surprised by the clank of metal sheets connected to the door as he opened it. He was more surprised that the loud snoring coming from the second level above did not change at all in reaction. He presumed that the upper space must be the namesake Gillespie's residence, while this floor was clearly the cramped office. Keeping home and work so close was common enough; but sleeping deeply and leaving the store unattended at this time of morning was not wise, even and especially in Nassau.

Hence the large, snarling dog that appeared at the opposite, open door.

"Out here!" a voice called from the workshop beyond the dog, as if anticipating the question or concern.

Now twice invited, and led by the heeling dog, Billy cautiously stepped out of the store, from plank floors back into the now cool sand. Despite its high roof and open walls, this storehouse felt tiny, as it too was piled wide with stacks of woods, stacked deep with barrels of smaller bits, and strung high with coils of rope and sail. He wondered quickly if it might actually be possible to cobble a complete ship after all, from the sheer quantity and variety of goods stuffed about.

The dog sat watching him a few feet away, having made space, but not permitting further passage. Movement down the narrow aisle beyond him caught Billy's eye, as an upright roll of canvas wobbled above a tall stack of something, and then settled into place. Further rustling was followed around the corner by the young Sebastian, wearing two bandoliers of thick rope and carrying a large wicker chest of something. He smiled on seeing his visitor, and approached with a pleased, if puzzled expression.

"You're stronger than you look," Billy observed in as much admiration as astonishment. Sebastian also looked older and taller in sunshine than in back alleys.

"I find it's good to be underestimated, and better still to be quick," the apprentice fired back quickly and with a slight blush, before easily setting down all his cargo. Without burden, shirt or hesitation, he squatted, petted the four-legged sentry, and continued curiously, "What are you doing here?"

"I've come for some supplies," Billy brandished a piece of paper as evidence.

"Bien. We have some of them," Sebastian grinned mockingly. He gestured for the paper, and continued as he stood and looked it over. "Though, usually it's Mister Gates who comes for the _Walrus_."

The dog waited patiently beside him, in case needed or until dismissed.

"He has other business this day; and I volunteered to bring our list," Billy explained, noting the last phrase earned him a glance from the apparent on duty shopkeeper. "As it's not a long or complicated one this visit, I guess he's trusting me to do right by our crew on his behalf."

Sebastian could only nod at the sense that made, and the small honor it indicated.

"Besides," Billy added casually as he picked at a barrel of small metalwork, "You invited me."

"I did?"

He now had Sebastian's undivided attention. "I believe your exact words were '…The warmest' of invitations,' for 'whenever I like,' actually."

"That was for Noonan's."

" _You_ should have been more specific," the taller man shrugged.

The thin, tan and tautly muscled teen nodded again, accepting the pirate's interpretation with a gradual, wide grin. "Apparently so. Grab a basket," he instructed. Patting and apparently loosing the dog to its own business, he headed back into the labyrinth. "Light list this visit indeed…," he noted over his shoulder as Billy followed dutifully with the empty tote.

"Last prize was little effort-surrendered quickly; no damage."

"That's good," Sebastian confirmed, before seeming to dive into a heap of tackle pulleys.

If there was system to any of the collection, Billy couldn't suss it out. But Sebastian reappeared quickly, tossed a pair of requested pieces into the basket, and continued to move easily and purposefully through the maze.

"Does that mean their crew was that frightened, or had that little to protect?" He grabbed and tossed a few additional bits into the basket as he passed them.

"Pardon?" Billy wondered, having to concentrate on not missing the flying items.

Sebastian stopped, and turned with a slight worry on his face. "No offence; you and your crew are more than capable. I just know easy prizes are often easy because they're small, not worth fighting for."

"So you know piracy now, do you?"

"I know pirates. And pirates tend to talk. Just not sure yet if you're the exception to that as well… Grab a score of these," he nodded to the barrel of nails beside them. "I'll grab twine and canvas scraps."

Picking out twenty of the least weathered and bent nails, Billy chuckled at the confidence of the other young man: moving as though he owned the place, commenting—correctly—on the realities of high seas conflict, and engaging with the likely older and certainly larger pirate with almost friendly familiarity. All after their showdown just the night prior.

Across the cavernous space, at the end nearest the water, he caught sight of Sebastian swiftly climb a rope ladder to a second level tucked in under the rafters, similarly crowded with assorted goods. Adding 'nimble' to the growing list of his new acquaintance's attributes, Billy realized he had certainly underestimated him the night before. Which was what Sebastian had just said he preferred in others, despite also being caught in the first place, and then confessing his undetected pocket picking.

"Your list didn't say what gauge of twine…," a voice suddenly beside him caused him to jump. "Sorry," Sebastian almost laughed, "I didn't realize how deep into the nail counting you was…"

"I didn't realize how sneaky you could be," Billy fired back, a little embarrassed.

"You caught me last night, when I was trying; so…," Sebastian reminded without judgement, offering three cord options.

Looking even more cross at being reminded he could do better, Billy just pointed to the needed ball of twine, and changed the subject. "I assume that was Mister Gillespie I heard fast asleep above the store? Does he often leave you to run the place?"

Not having meant the reminder as an insult, Sebastian followed the shift, set aside the unwanted stock, and added a roll of sail patches to the basket. He confided, "Our success counts on his good name on the sign, and his good reputation about the town. Best for all that I handle the rest."

"There's no 'and son' on that sign…," Billy continued to wonder, as they moved on.

"Not his son…," was the matter-of-fact reply, and quick subject change of his own. "I'll have to cut down a few timbers to these measures. Strong as you are, probably best I deliver it to the jetty by cart."

Not ready with another suggestion as they'd reached the list's end, Billy just nodded and followed the mere, yet more than, apprentice back to indoor office.

The dog re-appeared as if on cue, as Sebastian quickly tallied the bill. "Paying now, or on the _Walrus_ ' account?"

"Well, you know _I_ don't have enough to cover it," Billy reminded with a grin, trying to assure he held no hard feelings about their previous transaction.

"I didn't count your purse," the non-thief added, with a little concern.

"Or take anything from it—a mystery I've yet to fully solve…"

"Bastian!" a muffled shout accompanied a few thuds and shuffling sounds above them.

"His majesty wakes," sighed the summoned, not really wishing this as the conclusion of his customer conversation.

Billy glanced upwards and gave an exaggerated grimace, as if to say "sorry."

Sebastian shrugged, handed him the logged bill of goods, and promised, "We'll cut your timber, and bring everything down to you, Mister Bones. Say around… midday?"

Billy nodded and stuck out his hand to seal the deal. "Please tell Mister Gillespie that I'm grateful, and that I insisted his able apprentice do so personally. And-" he refused to release the rough hand, "As it seems we'll see each other yet again, I insist _you_ call me 'Billy.'"

The shopkeeper smiled at this departure's mutual gentility, as his name echoed above them again. "'Right, Billy. I'm..."

"Bastian!"

* * *

Just as the church bell struck one, Billy tossed the mooring line to his shipmates on the longboat full of food and fresh water. Another was being loaded, and would soon ferry those additional supplies out to the _Walrus_. Depending on what news there was in town of potential prey, and how the captain was feeling in general, they could be sailing within a few hours of his own expected, now late-ish delivery. They'd had a good run of late; not good enough to rest on, but just enough success to make everyone eager for more, soon.

Also scanning the beach for straggling crewmates who'd reportedly had too good a night on the town, Billy happened to notice a struggling figure approaching from the east. Not the cart and horse he was expecting, he quickly realized it was the promised Bastian barely making progress with a trailing sled strapped to him. Despite displaying more determination than distance, the downtrodden cap was only slowly inching forward.

"Sorry to be late," the young man winced as Billy jogged up.

"Why…?" the customer gaped, himself balancing judgment, concern and sheer amusement.

"I aim to be a man of me word; but… Mister Gillespie had business in town…," Bastian explained, not yielding in his effort to gain more ground. That the suggested cart and supposed horse or donkey went with the master, went breathlessly unsaid.

Billy glanced up at the incredibly short walking distance between the workshop and even the farthest point of the proper town. _Bastard couldn't be bothered to make even that short stroll…_ "Let me," he insisted, stepping in front of the resolute apprentice.

"It's my job," Bastian insisted back, almost taking affront at the quick dismissal.

"It'll be the death of ya…"

"Just leave it," Sebastian looked up intently, clearly unwilling to back down from the physical challenge–in general, or at least for this audience.

Concerned less about missed punctuality, and more for the person before him, Billy suggested a compromise, "Together then?"

Sweating and sore, Bastian looked past the outstretched hand, sizing up the undeniably long stretch of beach left between him and the waiting pier. Glancing up at Billy through exertion-loosened locks of hair, he appreciated the face was clearly more a "please" than any pleasure at his plight.

Nodding gratefully, he slipped off the rope sash; and they each hooked an elbow through it. The change in speed was immediate, and brought a friendly smile to both faces.

"I'm guessing he didn't help much with the cutting or loading either; so thank _you_ again getting our supplies together."

"I'm just sorry if I've delayed you all, or caused _you_ any grief with-"

Billy wanted to be clear that his displeasure with the commerce had nothing to do with Bastian. "I enjoyed a nice hour on the dock, loading other supplies, and watching people. Not so bad. Besides, no word yet on when we'll sail."

"Not often you hear a pirate relish being stuck on land, when he could be at sea," Bastian pointed out, a bit dubious of Billy's gracious non-judgment.

"Being afloat and afoot each have their draws, even for a pirate," Billy smiled at the question and at his answer. "A lot has to do with the company." He let that observation sit a moment, before returning the question. "How about you, land or sea?"

"Land," Bastian claimed instantly, before trying to soften the landlubber pride with a bashful smile. "I wanted to sail once, but… I've learned I'm at my best with solid land beneath me feet. Today's dragging aside, that is."

Curious about the love of land over water, Billy focused more on Bastian's joke at his own expense, glad he wasn't beating himself up too much over having to adjust to Gillespie's selfish decision. He started to ask about the why as they neared the jetty, when a new voice called out.

"Billy!"

They turned to see the _Walrus_ Quartermaster approaching, a curious look on his face at their unusual delivery arrangement.

"And young master Price…"

"It's my fault the delivery's late, Mister Gates," Billy cut off Bastian's open mouth. He raised his eyebrows to the intended martyr's immediate irritation, and at the new surname information. "But I trust _Master Price_ has arranged for everything, as ordered."

Bastian could do no more than nod in agreement, apparently to both points.

"Well, let's get it loaded then, shall we? The captain wants to get underway this afternoon after all."

Having brought more cargo than the present longboat could carry, they unloaded the sled onto the edge of the short pier. Both Billy and Bastian watched the elder sailor's every expression to every item he inspected or handled.

Seeing nothing but approval and acknowledgement, the trio made short work of the task. But they'd been quicker than any empty longboat returning from the ship; and so faced a potentially awkward lull in activity.

"I should get on my way," Bastian interjected. "Other orders yet today…"

"Thank ye, Master Price," Gates shook his hand. "And give my best to Mister Gillespie, as always."

"I will, sir," Bastian nodded, slinging the rope over his shoulder for the lighter return trip. "Billy, good hunting."

Patting him on the back as he set off, Billy waited until he was well beyond earshot to grumble, "Gillespie left him to make the delivery without horse or cart… Lucky for him, and us, that Bastian could and did step up!"

Gates nodded nonchalantly. "That wreck was Gillespie's best bit o'luck in years."

"Wreck?"

"Aye. You've heard of Cap'n West and the _Danger_?"

Billy nodded. _Who hadn't heard of the ill-fated pirate, who'd sunk his sloop on the first voyage after Hornigold gave it to him, just a few years back?_ (2) "Gillespie's son was on the _Danger_?"

"No, but that boy was. One of only two souls to survive."

Billy watched that soul move down the beach much more quickly unladen, as Gates explained further while double checking the delivery.

"He was too young and inexperienced to offer any more explanation than 'the storm;' and Marquez never spoke again, took to opium, and died soon after. I'd say by... mutual disinterest, the boy hasn't sailed with any crew since. And so, by default, Gillespie got himself a solid, if sea-squeamish apprentice.

"What I also know," Gates looked up from reviewing the bill, "is that, from here on, I'll be sending _you_ for whatever we need from them…"

"How's that?" Billy started, confident he'd handled the sale well, but not expecting to have earned the duty permanently.

Gates scoffed amusedly, "Not sure what you said or promised; but I know he brought our supplies ahead of at least two ships still waiting on theirs. And for a third less than the same goods usually cost us. Well done!"

Not sharing the specific joy that accompanied this particular pat to his back, Billy looked out to where his new acquaintance had all but reached the workshop. He shook his head at how Bastian had once again left him intrigued, if not oddly indebted. And Billy Bones had little patience for curious itches, or with owing anyone anything.

* * *

 **NOTES**

1\. A shipwright builds or repairs ships, while a chandler specializes in supplies and equipment for them. Here I've presumed that perishable stores for the crews, like food, water, livestock, etc, are provided by some other merchant in Nassau, leaving Gillespie to focus only on parts and equipment for the vessel itself.

2\. John West was a real pirate who raided in the Caribbean with the real Hornigold, and whose fate is unknown after 1713-14, a few years before the series is set. To that history, I've added the fictional _Danger_ and its fate.


	3. Jolly Meeting

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **2\. Jolly Meeting  
**

It was just over a fortnight before the _Walrus_ next visited Nassau. Two good prizes had taken some time to track and secure, but were well worth the time and effort; and she returned bulging with spoils her hold almost couldn't hold.

There was so much, in fact, that the crew worked through the night they arrived, and into early the next morning to ferry it all ashore and to Guthrie's. And with word of more ready targets underway, the men worked the same boats back just as feverishly with fresh provisions for the crew.

But the victories had also again been painless enough to require no supplies for the ship itself. So, while making a small delivery to another crew taking a more leisurely approach in their resupply, Bastian managed to catch Billy's attention only long enough to earn a smile and shrug.

"Nothing today, I'm afraid, Sebastian," a voice spared him notice, as busy bodies hustled past.

"No worries, Mister Gates," was the cheerful response, more expected than felt. "Though, I believe, sir, the _Walrus_ is coming due for a careening; and we've just had in a new batch of pitch. Good quality too!" he promised with a hopeful grin, trying to keep up with the ship's main buyer amidst the bustle, without losing sight of Bones. "I'll be sure to hold some for you, for when you've a breather between successes."

"Sounds good, lad. Though," Gates turned with a wry smile and wink, "you'll forgive us if we just keep succeeding for a good while yet?"

Bastian nodded, knowing they wouldn't take the ship out of service, much less out of the water, unless they had no better option. The quick turnover whirling around them demonstrated as much.

He stepped clear as some confusion over whether a particular barrel was coming and going required Gates' intervention. When the men's sniffing hadn't been enough, the senior sailor had to wade in and read its label to them, before they resorted to opening it–-and cutting it resale price by doing so.

Clear this visit was to be busy as brief, Bastian let them all get to it, and settled for waving them farewell a few hours later from the workshop rafters.

* * *

Some days later, the solemn toast to the fallen shipmate had quickly given way to more raucous retellings of his misadventures, and to other boasts and belittlings of this sailing's hard-fought and only slight profitability. Among other crews and townfolk filling the island's main public house, the _Walrus_ ' rowdy corner stood out for its numbers, noise and pints knocked back.

Across the busy room, Billy happened to see Bastian enter the tavern, and look about to catch sight of him with a quick nod. When the visitor shook his head when waved over, Billy excused himself and wove his way to greet him with a large, likely liquor-loosened hug. "Bastian! I wondered if we might see you here!"

"Well, hello," the newcomer said, a bit aghast at the unexpected welcome, as the taller man uncurled from around him. "I've been on the go all day, and only just heard you'd returned. I'm sorry about… 'Puffy' was it?"

"Good man," Billy nodded gratefully, before his energy returned and he insisted, "We're sharing drinks and stories now; you should join us!"

"You're kind to offer," Bastian assured, casting a worried glance at the space dotted with sailors. "But best if I leave you all to your…"

"Nonsense!" Billy clapped him on the shoulders, spun him about, and steered him back through the throngs toward the loudly mourning ship family. "Lads, scoot down if you please," he shouted into their midst. "This is our friend, Sebastian Price, the chandler's apprentice, who keeps us well stocked for our…"

The table had gone very quiet on their arrival, silent on the apparent intent that the young man join them.

"What?" Billy asked, genuinely confused at the chilly reaction.

"We know who he is," Singleton observed, speaking for the collective discomfort.

"And?"

"Last crew he broke bread with didn't fair so well," Logan noted from across the table and behind his drink.

The gathered eyes looked widely at Billy and his guest, or turned awkwardly down or away. No one seemed to breathe.

Pale and tense, Bastian looked back to make a polite excuse, but was cut off quickly.

"So if the table sinks, I'll buy you all new drinks," Billy laughed in combination with a stern glance around the table. He pushed Bastian onto the bench between his spot and the Boatswain, reinforcing his decision to end the discussion through a final, firm look.

Drinks, hands, eyes and heads seemed frozen by the smiling, if stubborn imposition.

Until beside him, Randall slapped the table and burst out in a loud, long guffaw, entirely out of proportion to Billy's mild humor. His extended laugh and arm thrown warmly around the wide-eyed Bastian were just enough to shatter the moment, and return the company's jovial mood. He slammed a tankard before the younger man, shouting "Any which way, we drink!"

Getting a nod from Billy, Bastian grinned himself, grabbed the mug with both hands, and quickly finished the contents in series of long, splashing chugs.

"Ho!" the table erupted, with shouts of surprise, encouragement, "chest hair" predictions, and varied assurances that the speaker had always known the lad could do.

Billy nodded a quick "thank you" to the older man, and received a friendly wink back.

Sebastian got his hair ruffled as he wiped his chin with his arm, before he settled in beside his friend with a hardy belch and sigh, and a fresh round of rum was shouted for.

* * *

"Clear!" someone shouted, as Bastian scrambled over the table, and stuck his head out the window just in time.

Among laughs and shouts, and more than a few potentially helpful slaps to his heaving back, the clear consensus was that the young man had both lost and won the evening. By ship tradition, they'd all drunk enough once the first man lost consciousness or his liquor; and the not large youth had lasted far longer than any of the more seasoned sailors had expected. While he'd receive no invitation to join the crew, he'd certainly honored their brotherhood and earned a place of respect at their casks and barrels.

Final swigs made, and coins tossed on the table, the group began to break up, as the celebration moved across the street to more shapely, if still delicious draughts.

"Shame your little friend couldn't hold his liquor," Muldoon laughed as he filed out.

"He held his fine; it was _your_ last round that was too much, you generous bastard!" Billy taunted back, walking around rather than climbing across the table. His large hand settled warmly on Bastian's back, as the victor coughed and spit as much pride as potion. "Have some of this."

"I've had enough," Bastian groaned.

"It's just water. Rinse a bit…"

Draped over the sill, Bastian twisted enough to sip a series of mouthfuls from the cup his host offered. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely once his breathing had calmed.

"Don't be. Best show most of us have had in a while!"

The entertainer shot a mildly hurt look over his shoulder.

"I promise the talk will only be praise. Randall's welcome and your drinking saw to that. He's not the Boatswain for no reason; and you drink like you grew up in this tavern… Did you?" he half-joked, as he helped Bastian step back and take a seat on the bench.

Bastian shook his head slowly and slightly, trying to regain his balance and not set off another entertaining demonstration.

"He was through here enough," added the suddenly present owner's daughter, as she gathered payment and leftovers. "But he grew up across the street."

Billy looked up at her, realizing her tone was an urgent readying of the table for new customers, not a judgement on the recovering man, or even the brothel she'd referenced.

She was, however, clearly trying to determine _his_ trust- or at least credit-worthiness. "Bastian, are you alright? I can have Mister Scott see you home…"

The object of her honest concern pushed himself to his feet, turning to share an earnest smile. "Well enough, Miss Guthrie; thank you."

Seeing him begin to sway, Billy took him by the upper arm, which helped bolster his strength and stability. "I can see him back safely, mam. It's my insistence he join in that got us here."

"Hardly an argument that you're now to be trusted to look after him," she worried openly.

"I owe him," Billy explained simply and sincerely.

"See that tomorrow he can confirm you're settled," she ordered flatly, holding his gaze directly, before accepting a nod from Bastian and moving on.

"You didn't have a hat, did you?" Billy asked as he guided his steady but slow friend out onto the street.

"Too hot."

Billy hoped that meant he hadn't brought one, not that he didn't want one now.

Empty and out of the cramped quarters, Bastian's step solidified, steered toward the shore. Billy released his hold, but stayed close should he need to effect another rescue.

"Wait!" Bastian spun quickly to face the block they'd just traveled, and took Billy by his arm. He gestured toward the still lingering _Walrus_ pod filtering into Noonan's.(1) "You're not joining your shipmates…"

"I'm seeing you home, and likely to bed," Billy explained calmly and quietly, using the renewed connection to head them that way.

Without resisting, Bastian looked up at him with suspicion, or at least confusion. He vaguely recalled that this choice was more significant than one night's chivalry.

"Were _you_ planning on visiting Noonan's?" Billy asked.

"I spent enough time there, and know it well," Bastian shrugged with clear disinterest.

"Eleanor Guthrie said you grew up there. Is that true?"

Plodding along dutifully, Bastian nodded his head as plainly.

Encouraged, Billy pressed the point a little further. "The night we met, you called the women there your 'sisters'…"

"Or 'aunts,'" he nodded again. "But not really. Me mum was just one of the girls there…"

"Your mother is one of Noonan's girls?" Billy gaped slightly.

" _'Was_ ;' Sixteen years ago." Bastian squished his face, as if disappointed. "You do know what happens there, don't you? And how babies are made?"

"Yeah," Billy laughed at the apparent misunderstanding. "I just hadn't considered what would happen if a child… Or that you…"

"It finished me mum in the work," Bastian trod on. _A brat hanging on spoiled even the fantasy of being the first to a bed's lush new world._ "But the ladies looked out for me. And there were other children around to play with, like Eleanor."

Unrelated to his recounting, Bastian stopped suddenly and hunched over, hands on his knees.

"Not too much farther," Billy promised. He was too tall for Bastian to throw an arm over his shoulder; and he doubted Bastian would consent to be carried outright. So, as the moment passed, he pulled Bastian's arm around his waist, and hooked under the opposite one; with Bastian somewhat leaning against him, they teetered steadily on.

"Jolly will challenge you as we get close," Bastian warned soon thereafter.

"Jolly?"

"The dog. It's ironic."

Ever on cue, the growling mutt stepped out of the warehouse's moon shadow.

"Let me," Bastian suggested, pulling away from Billy's support, and dropping to his knees a few feet ahead. "C'mere, Jolly. It's me." He held out his hand, and snapped a few times.

Teeth bared and eyes not moving from the statue-still stranger, the dog slowly came close enough to let Bastian pet and pull him close.

"C'mere," Bastian now snapped his fingers at Billy. "It's OK, Jolly. This is Billy. He's a friend, a good man."

Cautiously, the pirate approached and the pet sniffed at him. Bastian continued to soothe the dog, as Billy knelt and offered his hand for inspection.

Though Jolly had not seemed to calm nearly enough for Billy's tastes, Bastian took his hand and pulled it to the still leery canine's breastbone. "Scratch here. This is his favorite spot."

With continued encouragement from his master, and a few light strokes from the newcomer, the growl became a scowl, became a tolerated pleasure.

"See, you're friends now," Bastian grinned, as Billy sighed at the additional connection made, without injury.

"Alright, time for bed, Jolly. Bed time," Bastian's message but not tone changed, as he began to lay down right there in the sand.

"Whoa there, sleepyhead," Billy tried interrupting him. "Not quite yet."

"Bed time," Bastian yawned persistently.

Watchful but obedient, Jolly turned and headed back to the building, leaving Billy to resort to just picking up the drowsy drunk. Though Bastian didn't fight his sudden flight, Billy realized the only bedroom he knew at this site was Gillespie's—one story up, and likely not shared with the help. Sure Bastian had a space, but having no idea how to find it in the crowded maze ahead, he noticed the dog had stopped and was looking back from a break in the piles along the wall.

"Bed time, Jolly," Bastian repeated again sleepily.

Jolly looked into the darkness, and back out at the apparent delivery man.

No better option, Billy made sure Bastian was securely settled against his shoulder, and stepped toward the guard become guide. "Bed time, Jolly," he mimicked softly.

Sure enough, as he approached, Jolly moved ahead.

They repeated the advance and retreat many times, winding quickly and safely through the dim space, until the dog leapt up on a low pile near the water's end.

"That I can't do, puppy," Billy grimaced, especially as Bastian's breathing had settled into a calm pattern. He looked around for some other possibility.

Perhaps wondering why the human had stopped following, Jolly scampered up a steep course until he disappeared entirely in the dark rafters.

"So helpful," Billy grumbled, wondering if the dog had played them both.

But then movement above him caught his eye, as the silhouette of said mutt appeared. It looked down from the lofted landing Bastian had climbed to on his first visit nearly a month before, from the top of a sturdy rope ladder.

"Oh hell," he shook his head. "Bastian? Are you awake? Can you climb?" he shook his sleeping load and hoped, for naught.

Not willing to just tuck Bastian into a corner, lest he face the wrath of Eleanor Guthrie, Jolly or his own conscience, he took a breath, uttered a summary "fuck," and found the ladder's loose end. Grateful for his years on ships, he gently draped Bastian over his shoulder, and carefully climbed as if lugging valuable gear into the rigging.

Having monitored the ascent, Jolly made room for him to slowly roll Bastian onto the high floor.

Crawling over the slumbering form, he noted the dog had moved deeper into the space, toward the filtered moonlight and the building's end. Following with the lightly snoring apprentice, he stepped around a wall of canvas into a small, semi-covered balcony. Nestled into the thatch atop the warehouse, the landing opened to a view of the entire harbor. Panels of calico sails separated it from the stores around it, and probably from the sun and weather above. Stacks of the most mundane materials formed simple furniture, crowded or perhaps decorated with many more, more interesting items. And tucked well under the roof, a hammock swayed gently in a head-on breeze that could not be felt at the water's surface.

Jolly headed to a small nest of fabric nearby, still watching as Billy gently deposited Bastian into the bed. He set him up as high on one end as he could, lest he choke on any further sickness, removed his shoes, and carefully pulled loose the largely defunct, and potentially tangling hair tie. "Sleep well, Bastian," he wished.

Pausing a few moments to ensure Sebastian's sleep transition was complete, and his delivery safe as promised, he happened to notice a few curios nearby. Mindful of the prone but still attentive Jolly, he was drawn to one prominent piece in particular: a clearly recognizable, if rough, replica of the _Walrus_ , complete with a tiny, skeleton'd flag.

* * *

NOTE

1\. A gathering of walrus is called a herd, huddle or pod.


	4. Continued Ripples

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **4\. Continued Ripples**

"No, take this one," Bastian pointed Billy to a different large spool of canvas, with a quick glance toward the haughty chatter echoing from the office. "It's newer."

"Playing favorites?"

"Not playing," he grinned back as they worked together to heave the better product from among its upright, down-quality kin. "You saw how McGurdy treated me in the office; he doesn't deserve it. Others are nice enough; but you're the only crew rep who goes beyond the formal niceties…"

"So, no one else's ever carried you home?"

Bastian glared back with equal mirth, "You'll recall that I walked most of it; thank you very much."

 _Fair enough_ , Billy nodded, as they slung the long roll over their shoulders, and carefully wove its length out to his waiting cart. Settling it in carefully, Billy gave the borrowed horse a friendly pat as Bastian returned to the water bucket in the shade of the storehouse.

"That's everything on your list," Bastian took a deep drink and held out the ladle. Throwing an eye roll toward the continuing banter inside, "Before I total it up, did want to take a look at the cannon?"

Pouring one scoop into his mouth and another over his head, Billy waved him to lead on.

Refilling Jolly's bowl before setting off to the piles on the opposite side of the building, Bastian marveled aloud, "Setting aside the damage you took, I'm still impressed they could aim right down the barrel."

"Their shots to our sails, hoping to hobble our pursuit—that was skill. Fouling the port gun was just bad luck—for us, and so for them once we boarded..."

Given what he knew of some of Billy's shipmates, Bastian grimaced at what unpleasantness that likely meant. As for the ship's gun, "Barrett's a top smithy. If it can be fixed, he'll do it. Until then…" He pulled the cover off the sole cannon he had on hand, probably traded years ago as payment against other, more vital repair supplies.

Slightly smaller than the _Walrus_ ' current armaments, it seemed to be in fairly good shape—assuming the crabs that scattered from under it hadn't done more than squat there.

While he looked it over, Billy took the opportunity to learn a little more about its purveyor. "Once Jolly'd led me up to your roost that night, and you were wrestling thunder in your rack, I noticed you have quite the collection of ships… Not enough to see them from your lookout?"

"I grew up here in Nassau. Surely you've noticed that not much happens here _but_ ships. Goods come and go on ships. People come and go on ships. Weather changes; but it's hard to model. And anyway, it too brings and takes ships…"

Billy considered the simple, and spot on, observation. "And you always wanted to grow up and fix and furnish them, did you?" He knew that wasn't likely the case, but felt it was a kinder, likely starting place.

Bastian shook his head, or the breeze jostled his ever-escaping locks. "Like every child on the island—genteel, slave or bastard—I was quite taken by the sailors and then privateers, and their stories. I wanted nothing more than to join them on the seas, and to see something other than Nassau." As he leaned against the well-traveled weapon and looked out at the choppy bay, his tone and expression were thick with how deep that desire still ran in him.

Playing stupid for charity's sake, Billy watched and wondered, "You wanted to be a pirate?" They _were_ more… conventional roles and ships afloat.

Another shake of the head, as Bastian blushed and confided an entirely unexpected ambition. "I wanted to be a pirate _captain_. Even picked the name for me ship…"

"Really?" Billy chuckled at the not unsurprising streak of confidence. "And what was that?"

"The _Reckoning_ …," Bastian growled with exaggerated gruff, "to strike fear in every heart afloat, when she sailed up and it came your time for..."

"The _Reckoning_!" Billy laughed with him at the inherent message.

"But, my plans weren't entirely watertight," the sandy apprentice recalled more quietly, the childhood joy sinking away as well. He looked up, certain the actual pirate knew the story, even if he'd been too kind to say. "And now I can't stand even to go out on the water. Best I can do is send supplies and watch…"

Having completed his inspection round, Billy wiped his hands and settled beside the melancholy he'd not intended to muster.

"I'm sorry, Bastian. The fear's understandable; I've heard tell from several ships about the power of the storm that took the _Danger_ –and they was safe in port. If it's any consolation, I'm glad you were here, on land, to bet met. And you've a real gift for running all this," he pointed around them, bringing one arm to rest across Bastian's shoulders. "And, you've plenty of life ahead to get back on the water, if you find the right ship and crew…"

Bastian looked up at him dubious, but grateful, "Thanks."

"Really," Billy shook him with a big and sincere grin. "I'm not just angling for a cheaper price on this here cannon."

"And speaking of you, how did Billy Bones come to sail these seas. Word is you came to the Caribbean from England."

"The streets or your sisters still talking about me, are they?"

Bastian's look confirmed only that he was still looking for answers, not topical diversions.

"Fair enough," Billy sighed, recalling the curiosity with which their friendship had begun, and that Bastian had shared quite a bit, without demanding much in return. "I did grow up in London, with my parents and a younger brother, Grover." His face now clouded, as he looked back to the north. "I'd just turned fifteen, when I was seized from the street and impressed into Her Majesty's naval service, a heinous practice my folks actively opposed, funny enough. Perhaps they found the scattered pamphlets I dropped when taken…

"Anyway, I spent three years a slave to the realm, before Captain Flint and the _Walrus_ happened to take the merchantman I'd been tasked to. And for nigh on two years since, me mates have been kind enough to take me into their brotherhood, and Mister Gates, into his tutelage."

"You didn't go home?"

Billy bit his lip and took a few breaths, before turning to look Bastian square. "I done some things since being taken, Bastian; some not very good things. To men who deserved it, to be sure. But," he looked away, "I can't expect my family to understand, or accept that. In a way, I got the freedom they was fighting for, and another family. Just came at a high cost..."

Succinct as it was, the confidence was more than Bastian had expected, in depth and content. Billy had seemed so strong and at ease in the pirate life-though the upbringing and loss might also explain his generous moments. Bastian hesitated on how to respond—a hand, a word…

From somewhere in the piles, Jolly gave a few sharp barks, shattering the moment with news of new visitors.

"I should get on…" Billy hopped up, and began re-covering the weapon. "I'll let Misters Gates and Randall know to come have a look for themselves. Could serve us well; but it's their decision."

Bastian nodded his understanding on all points, continuing to watch until Billy's still nervous glance spurred him on, as Jolly arrived to confirm he'd heard the alarm.

The trio moved in silence back to the _Walrus_ ' cart, where they found a pair of sharp sideburns poking about in it.

"Best of the day, Mister Rackham," Bastian stepped between him and the cart. "As I finish with this customer, you're welcome to step into the shaded office. If Mister Gillespie's not there already, I'll be in to assist you promptly."

The _Ranger_ 's Quartermaster looked him, the pirate, and the dog up and down over his peculiar dark spectacles. "Captain Vane doesn't like to be kept waiting…"

Looking about earnestly, as if for the dropped namesake, Bastian smiled overly-helpfully. "Sorry, I must have missed him in this crowd… As you've only just arrived yourself, and not seeing the good captain yet present, I'll guess we're OK for the moment." He turned to Billy with a proper air, and without sharing his name, "I'll drop a bill to your camp later for this load. And just let us know about those last items as you can. Thank you, sir," he stuck out his hand—both overplaying the business relationship with his actions, and clearly meaning more via his sincere look.

"Much appreciated, Mister Price," Billy agreed with a wide, static smile for the show. He bent to pet the alert guard dog, tipped his head to the competitor, and drove off briskly.

"Next!" Bastian shouted past his sole audience member. "Ah yes, Mister Rackham…"

* * *

The loud drum roused him, as he slowly, then quickly, became aware of its coursing, near deafening beat. Blinking in the dim light, Billy tried to make sense of where he was, what was happening, and how he'd arrived at… wherever here was. He was lying down, sort of. He was laying against something. No, against _someone_. No, being held.

He focused on focusing his clearing sight, as he realized the beat wasn't a sound, but a feeling. Heartbeat. Headache. Pangs across his body. And the slow up and down of breathing below and behind him.

Finally able to make out more than shapes, he shifted his head slightly—instantly sorry he had. As the flash of pain and slight nausea passed, he realized he was looking up at Bastian—shirtless, slumped behind him, and covered in drying blood and sand.

Instantly afraid of this outcome, never mind how it came to this, his voice failed; and so he reached up slowly, hesitantly, and brushed his fingers across the caked face.

Bastian's eyes flew open, as he inhaled sharply and grabbed the infringing hand instantly. Seeing no threat, and tracing the hand to its source, he sighed; and his pale teeth popped through smeared and sandy lips. "It's all yours," he corrected the worried assumption, leading the hand gently from his own, to Billy's wrapped and throbbing head.

As bad as Bastian looked, Billy could feel that he too was damp and sticky and gritty, with sweat and more. "What? What happened?" he wondered hoarsely, shifting enough to see they were at the shoreline, tucked in among some fish traps and netting. There was just the slightest hint of smoke in the air, of dawn in the sky, and of voices about on the beach behind them.

Bastian helped him sit up carefully, offering water from a canteen he'd 'borrowed' from a dinghy nearby. "You don't remember? There was quite the party last night. 'Birch's Bon Voyage?'"(1)

Billy nodded vaguely, knowing it was true more than remembering it was.

"We was all doing fine, until a fight started further up the beach; it spread quick through the dark and drink. Words, bottles and fists were upon us with almost no warning. Some crews I knew, some not… One bloke got hold of me as I tried to help Mister Gates; and you—you lost it!" Bastian's recount became more animated as he recalled the fierce moments. "Damn near snapped him in half before three of his mates ganged up on you. You threw one off, to who knows where. Joji dropped another. But the third," Bastian looked pained at this continued memory, "he got in a few blows with some kind of club…"

That explained the tenderness, aches, and what he presumed was Bastian's shirt-become-bandages wrapped around his head. "And then?"

"I managed to land a kick to his… 'coin purse,' and a knee to his nose as he folded. But you were down and groggy. And the blood— Best I could do then was drag you clear, and wrap your head somehow. I headed for the water, figuring I could float you away faster; but it didn't come to that. So, I kept you talking for a bit; but guess we both tuckered out…"

"I remember… the fire, and songs, and drinking, of course. And… somebody pushing somebody… Then, men hitting Doc Howell, and Mister Gates, and… and going for you…" Billy looked up, freshly recalled fear and anger on his face.

Bastian nodded, perhaps more clearly recalling the events leading to that moment when Billy roared in every sense. "If any of your outrage were for me, I thank you. I'm not used to anyone taking up for me…"

"That's what mates do."

Billy might as well have handed the young man beside him a knighthood, suggested the awe and blush across his face.

"Like being part of a crew, a brotherhood," Billy affirmed, realizing, "And mine will be looking for us, wanting to know we're well." Careful of the slighter man all but trapped beneath him, he slowly started to his feet.

"Can you stand? Should you?" Bastian worried aloud, slipping out from under and helping pull him upright.

"What about you?" Billy reciprocated the concern.

"Like I said, thanks to you, I came through mostly spotless meself. All this is what you shared."

Billy looked him over again, not fully certain the assurance wasn't more humor and humility than honesty. "Truly?"

"Pirates' honor," Bastian smiled.

Taking a few successful steps in the uneven sand, it was clear that Billy looked worse than he actually was beneath the battle's mementos. Patting Bastian gratefully on the shoulder, he took a few increasingly strong strides around and beyond their refuge, toward the area of the beach where the _Walrus_ encampment centered. Quickly realizing he was moving alone, he looked back to find Bastian paused, still largely hidden by the stacks.

"Best you go alone," Bastian waved him on quietly, with some reluctance.

Billy smirked at Bastian's continued pattern of keeping his distance from the crews. In fact, he hoped his judgment was visible through whatever his face looked like.

"It's _you_ they'll be concerned about," Bastian reminded. "Besides, I'm good. Gotta clean up, and see to Jolly and the shop."

Billy sighed, torn. Some part of him understood that Bastian was keenly aware of the seafarers' superstitions about his single, ill-fated sailing. He also realized that both times he'd talked Bastian into joining them on land, it had ended poorly—drunk and ill Bastian before, both of them beaten and bloody now. But he also wanted to enjoy the company of _all_ his friends freely.

"Billy!" he heard a happy shout from further up the beach. He'd been spotted.

Bastian nodded him on, and slipped back out of sight.

Moving on as his balance settled and several members of his crew headed toward their prodigal shipmate, Billy glanced back once, to see Bastian dutifully watching his progress—discreetly, but ready to assist again if needed.

To the sound of relieved shouts of "He's here!" and "He's awright," Bastian slipped down to the water, and began the shallow swim to Gillespie's. The direct, wet line was shorter than along the crescent beach, the water basically a bath along the way, and the company safer than most of the creatures dominating the dryer path.

* * *

 **NOTES**

1\. Edward Birch was the last English Proprietary Governor of the Bahamas in 1704, before the Franco-Spanish invasions and devolution into the Privateer's Republic through 1718. I've presumed the date of his departure might have become something of a holiday among the pirates, and set that date rather arbitrarily here in autumn.


	5. Strictly Business

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

 _A/N: Please note a brief additional scene was added to the end of this chapter_ **after** _it was originally posted._

* * *

 **5\. Strictly Business**

For all its fires and fisticuffs, the damage from the night's riot ultimately amounted to very little, considering. A hastily called convening of captains confirmed that it was unclear who started it all, that most every ship had participated, that little lasting physical harm had been done, that the outburst had likely let off needed steam along some rivalries, and that several ships would sail promptly, to ensure any smoldering embers had no change to relight.

Not admitting fault or flight, Flint and his men were nonetheless among the first to set out on a hunt, and among the last to return, having again added to their growing string of victories and rich hauls to show for it.

Well-practiced now at the arduous, but profitable, returns, the crew fell into ready roles—eager to reap the well-earned rewards of their long weeks away. Most worked to load, ferry and unload boats of booty. The captain went about whatever his business was. Gates and Dufresne took the books ahead to the Guthrie's. And Billy took a lengthy list to the chandlery, excited well beyond the mundane shopping, for the chance to catch up with his friend.

Not seeing the horse and cart tied beside the office, he guessed Gillespie himself had gone across the beach "into town." Going around it, just in case, he found the usual openings between perimeter piles had been closed off, stacked with additional and heavy supplies. "Bastian?" he shouted over the newly solid, de facto walls, with no response in speech or barking. Had Jolly really accepted him as no threat, if not as a friend?

He tried the opposite, water-ward side, and found the large gap there strung with rope, twine and dangling nails. "Bastian?" he shouted again, rehooking the jingling gate behind him. "Bastian!" he called, as he wove his way toward the more inland workspace, "We're back! Hello?"

Finally, a relieved "Billy?" echoed from nearby, as he rounded a corner to find Bastian limping toward him, sheathing a knife. The younger man's face and arms were covered in scrapes and bruises, and his smile was barely recognizable through a swollen cheek and lip. "I'm OK," he failed to convince, seeing his visitor's shocked reaction.

"What the hell…?" Billy took him by the shoulders, and bent to better inspect the battered countenance.

"…Looks worse…," he began, placing reassuring hands on Billy's arms.

But the sailor was distracted immediately by barely scabbed patches ringing his wrists.

"Bastian?" Billy gaped, before his face and voice darkened. "Who was it? I'll-"

"No," Bastian interrupted firmly, both touched and terrified by the protective reaction. "I don't know who. And it wouldn't help…"

Fighting the urge to head to town via the ship camps, and let God sort it out afterwards, Billy withheld his wrath in favor of all but lifting Bastian onto the nearest flat surface. Sinking to one knee before him, he noticed bruised shins and raw rings at his ankles as well. He looked up, his expression expecting answers.

"A few nights after you sailed…," Bastian provided, knowing he'd hear nothing else before an explanation, "I was making my way home from visiting at Noonan's; and didn't hear or see nothing. Just came to, tied between two barrels out in the harbor. I managed to work my feet loose, and get back here before morning. But Jolly…," he trailed off.

"Bastian? What about Jolly?"

The face, voice and posture before him wavered for the first time, "Hanging on the front door, drownt… in a bucket of piss."

Billy's anger melted briefly, leaning in for a quiet, shared beat, foreheads together. He was glad to see Bastian's hands had curled into fists, and returned to that line of feelings himself. "I'm sorry we weren't here. But I'll get some of the boys now, and-"

"No!" Bastian's energy returned to his usual levels of confidence. "This was a message from some or several crews, for me not to be playing favorites among the ships. Or maybe someone on yours—"

"It weren't no one from the _Walrus_ ; I swear it." They were at sea when it happened, and wouldn't have arranged…

Bastian smiled softly, choosing not to question, much less burst, his friend's understandable and admirable confidence in his brothers. He shrugged at the underlying conclusion, "The message was the same, no matter. And I'd guess the only reason it weren't more… harshly delivered is because Gillespie's services are too important for anyone to risk further. At least this time…" He didn't need to name aloud that his injuries, if not insults, could have been much worse, and certainly would be if he didn't heed this warning.

"Your crew won't do anything," he further observed and instructed, "And you mustn't neither. Kind as you are, they _all_ see me as an ill token. If I've heard the jeer, surely you have: 'A woman aboard's a curse; the West bastard around's worse'?"

Billy couldn't argue. He _had_ heard the taunt, when others didn't know he could here. Others even on his own crew.

"So," Bastian put his hands on Billy's shoulders, making eye contact to emphasize his request, "I've done what I can here, and am taking steps lest anyone else follow their lead. But best we all can do is stick to our business, and to our own. We have to put a safer space between me and… you especially."

 _To protect me_ , Billy realized, bristling at everything that implied. "I ain't afraid."

"'Course not," Bastian smiled at the loyal, if foolhardy, courage. "But I am for you. And you _should_ be."

* * *

As Turk and Morley set out to assist and return with the _Walrus_ ' supply order instead of him, Billy continued to fume to Gates outside the Guthrie warehouse.

"Gillespie made a few inquiries, for appearance's sake, and asked Captain Hornigold to rattle his swords a bit. He couldn't very well seem too blasé about his business' being targeted… But no one's talking! And the barrels were from his own shop; maybe he was in on it!"

Gates glared him to speak more quietly, as he smiled and nodded another several sacks in for sale. He took Billy by the arm, and led him away from the busy street door. "I _am_ sorry about young Price, and his dog; truly, I am. You know I like the lad; and God knows they was the most competent part of that shop. But Gillespie's not stupid; and it's his name on the building what's the only source of supplies the _Walrus_ can't do without."

He took a breath, recalling his role as tutor beyond taskmaster. "I know you're friendly with the boy; and we need good relations with him as well. But nice as he is, _many_ see him as bad luck, and see your friendliness as courting that danger. Beyond our own men, other crews talk too; and with tensions enough already…"

"What are you saying?" Billy cocked his head, beginning not to like the conversation's bearing.

Gates put his hand on Bones' shoulder, sighed, and laid it out plainly. _It didn't matter whether it was Vane's men or another ship's not appreciating the apparent and growing closeness between Gillespie's and Gates' boys, and the potential favoritism it suggested. Or if some of the_ Walrus _' own had given in to superstition. Or if Sebastian had simply angered someone entirely on his own. Regardless,_ "Much as we all hate it, Bastian told you true: I'm not saying you can't be friends with him –in fact, please keep him happy as you can. But we can't afford your closeness with him, over at least civil relations among the crew, or between ours and others. For the good of the ship, I'm asking you to put more distance, if not practice some considerable discretion, with our chandler's apprentice. Can you do that? It ain't right, I know; but it's how things are. It's business."

* * *

Ignoring the wave of excitement that swept the space on his crossing the brothel's threshold, Billy quickly tried to identify the perfect young lady to improve his evening. Those who looked too nervous were likely too new, or at least inexperienced, to know what he needed. Too eager meant she might insist on providing what she thought he wanted, rather than what he'd actually come for. Too disinterested suggested too much work, or too costly, to any end. No, given the day he'd had, and his apparently noted lack of prior experience here, his choice would be even more critical.

Her.

Standing near the foot of the stairs with a few other women—so not already working some other gentleman; but on the edge of their small circle—so ready to engage, follow, or lead. She batted her eyes, but not too much, as he walked toward her; and the blush on her cheeks might actually have been real, given who was approaching.

He reached politely for the hand with which she wasn't earnestly fanning herself. "I'm…"

"Too much a stranger here, Mister Bones," she cooed back, allowing him to take and kiss the readily exposed limb.

"Might we?" he smiled, glancing toward the upper floor.

"Such manners, sir," she nodded, while thinking _Such a hurry. He'll be done quick_. _Pity._

She took his proffered arm, and they ascended.

More than one watching man chuckled at the tall sailor's finally caving into his, and their, baser needs. More than one girl glared at their colleague's good fortune to have caught the elusive, pretty, and coveted prize. And Noonan and Mrs Mapleton each upped the night's take in their heads.

As the lucky lady closed the private room's door behind them, she bit her lips to maintain their hue and plumpness. She turned with a coy grin, to find him standing at the small table between her and the bed, purse already open.

"This is for your time," he set out a whole coin, without waiting for other pleasantries. "And another for your expertise."

She smiled hungrily at the clear inexperience of the gross overpayment, and ran a finger across her ample, if boosted, bosom, as she sashayed toward him. "Aw, honey, that's so sweet. But we usually don't talk payment until…"

"You deliver what I need, and I'll add another." A third entire coin clicked on the table surface.

She stopped short at the growing wealth he was volunteering, and in advance no less.

"And one more for your… creative discretion about our time together." He had made no other movement or reaction, and was now looking at her with polite dispassion.

He was neither nervous nor lecherous, the extremes at which most clients usually arrived, certainly nearly every newcomer. Suddenly uneasy at this unexpected, if sought-after, customer, and his most unusual actions, she tried to lunge casually for the small fortune between them.

But, the tall and handsome pirate leaned over the table protectively, with a strategic grin of his own. "Ah ah ah. Business first, as you said."

She squinted at him, while putting on her most pleasing smile. "And what is it that will make you happy tonight, generous Mister Bones?"

With no chairs in the sparse room, he gestured her toward the bed, holding his ground at the table. "I have some questions, for a start."

Deciding it best to go along with the… very little he'd actually asked thus far, she nodded, kept up her smile, and slowly made her way around him, to perch on the mattress edge.

"Alice, isn't it?" he asked, seemingly genuine.

Any pleasure she took from being known to his blue eyes was tempered by the odd start to their time together. She was both intrigued and uncomfortable.

"Alice, how long have you worked here at Noonan's?"

"Long enough…," she responded vaguely, as she was supposed to. _Enough to be experienced; but no so long as to be used._

He chuckled, realizing she was, of course, still selling, not telling. But he didn't have time or interest for this. "Long enough to know Sebastian Price?"

She sighed, greatly relieved his odd behavior wasn't equating to expectations of odd activities, at least not yet. She also tensed slightly, having heard what had happened to Bastian, and like most of the girls, being scared for him, and for themselves to a small extent, by association. "Aye," she answered, slowly and quietly.

"Well enough to care about him?"

"You've no reason to be jealous-"

"Care like a brother?" Billy corrected, adding a friendly smile to show he was simply curious, and knew enough not to be more.

"He's a sweet boy; we all think so. Been around here longer than me," finally responded offstage Alice.

"Then I assume you heard what happened to him, less than a fortnight ago?"

Her face saddened; and she clasped her hands across her previously unhindered lap. "He was beat, leaving us after his birthday party…"

"Birthday?" It was Billy's turned to be surprised at the sharing. And appalled. And further angered.

Reading his expression correctly, she nodded and continued. "He came by, a little before supper. Noonan doesn't like it; but we knew we wouldn't be busy yet. So all the girls chipped in and had the cook make him his favorite, a pineapple cake. He's so good to us, seeing how we find it hard to leave these walls—running errands, finding us things we need…" Her returned smile departed again. "He slipped out as our evening crowds began arriving. And none of us knew anything had happened, didn't realize we hadn't seen him, until Cap'n Hornigold's men came around a few days later. How is he?"

Seeing her concern, he could be honest with his. "He's a tough one, and'll be alright; but he's been better, Alice…" He plopped beside her on the bed, the shared worry giving her none about his joining her, before launching into a calm, but urgent gush. "My crew and me, we was away when it happened, which I think is why it happened then. They beat him nearly to death, and set him adrift, and drowned his dog. In a bucket of piss. And the threat to do it again, or worse, is clear. So, Alice, I want to find out who did it, and why. And I need you and your sisters, _Bastian's_ sisters, to help me do that…"

"Oh, I hadn't heard all that." She clutched her chest, and paced to the closed window, before turning to assure him, "We all felt so bad… And on his birthday…"

"Have you heard anything? Any of you? Men talking, before or after?"

"No, of course not," she confirmed. "Well, some grumbles now and then about their shipboard superstitions. You know the saying about 'women aboard…'?"

"I know it," he cut off her repeating it.

"You don't think-?"

"Someone _did_. And I think they'll be proud they did, even boastful."

He stood and held his hands out, honestly. "Even if I can't make them pay for what they've already done, I want to make sure they don't do it again, to anyone else. Will you help me with that? Will you ask around, quietly, and let me know what you and your sisters hear? For Bastian?" He put on his most sad, seductive expression.

She wrung her hands together, for what had happened to their little brother of sorts, for what she knew that certain type of man would do and talk about, to the house ladies especially, and so for what risky information she knew they could gather and share. Her nod clearly showed her competing concerns.

"Thank you, for anything you can do." Moving to leave, Billy nodded to the full payment still sitting on the table. "That's all I ask."

She followed, picking up the four coins. "He really means this much to you?"

"He does," Billy nodded. _All my friends and shipmates do._

"To us as well," she confirmed, counting three coins and holding them out to him. She explained the kept one, "I have to show something for our time together. You understand; it's just business."

He paused at her explanation, before a grateful smile returned. "Keep them, share them," he instructed, wanting to be sure there was every reason for every woman in the building to use her every will and wile. He blushed a little, "And, perhaps talk up our time together tonight. Whatever makes us both look good?"

"Wait!" she laughed with some relief, and a little regret at the lost opportunity with the strapping bloke. "They'll wonder enough at how little time you were here." She walked over, ruffled his hair, pulled his shirt open a little, and then planted a rapid series of kisses and nibbles all over his face and chest. "At the very least, you gotta look well serviced," she noted, sending him through the door with a pat to the rear. _And momma couldn't let you leave without a little something for herself…_

* * *

Billy _was_ smiling, genuinely, as he descended, straightened his clothes, and continued right out into the street. Ignoring whatever looks and laughter there may have been at his brief visit, he did feel it was a success for reasons none there could appreciate. Hoping his generosity, and the women's own affection, did generate some information and hopefully protection for Bastian, the lady of night had also helped him understand a way he might be able both to respect his fellow sailors' ridiculous aversion to Bastian, while maintaining that relationship…

He just needed to gather a few things, and find the right opportunity to suggest it.

* * *

 _tbc..._


	6. Castles above Sand

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

 _A/N: Please note a brief additional scene was added to the end of the previous chapter_ after _it was originally posted._

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Castles above Sand**

Less than two days later, the empty _Walrus_ sat beached at an odd angle, stripped entirely clean. Strong ropes bound her to the harsh, dry sand. Sharp tools and hot oil lay handy for another round at her exposed belly. Nearby, several fires burned; and around them, shouts mixed with thrashing shadows.

Most of the celebrating crew had spent the day scraping clean her outer hull—back-breaking work to remove barnacles, worms and seaweed that damaged and dragged on the pirate's most critical physical weapon. A sparsity of good target leads, on the heels of several good prizes, had led to the decision to haul her from the water for the regularly necessary, if dangerous and difficult purification.

They had also taken advantage of a rare availability of the best careening beach near Nassau. And so, the few dozen men and their guests enjoyed a few well-earned nights of ready rum, a fire-roasted pig, and the convenient, and widely popular, fuck tent. Having a few of Noonan's ladies on site was an extra benefit for the tired, fed, and at least tipsy lads, who also couldn't wander too far from the entire loose contents of their ship, now stacked on the same beach. Where in Nassau they shared space and services, just outside town here, they had a truly private party.

Having generously taken watch their first night ashore, so his mates could relax and be entertained, this second night Billy smiled at the back slaps and exhortations to enjoy the spoils of his rare night off. Sun down, and feast giving way to dancing, singing and a line at the pleasure palace, he checked that everything seemed in order, that tonight's sentries were in place, upright and largely abstaining, and then quietly stepped away toward town.

* * *

Knowing Bastian had been working on his defenses, Billy decided not to approach the chandlery directly, not so late at night and when unexpected. Instead, he waded into the surf well before it, and intentionally splashed his way loudly toward the large building's waterside, nearest to Bastian's roost. After all, he wasn't trying to hide his arrival from its resident, only from other, less welcoming eyes.

A heavy, wet "plop" directly before him stopped him short. As he decided whether it was just a jumping fish or odd wave, a voice warned from above, only slightly louder than the waves, "Won't miss with the next one."

"It's me," he whispered back through a wry smile. _Of course, he's on watch._

"Billy? I told you to stay clear…"

"I know; and I have, mostly. But… Can I just come up? No one's seen me."

Another splash directly under the loft's edge turned out to be a rope ladder, which he took as an invitation to climb.

Nearly three stories up, and not needing instructions to pull up the ladder, Billy found Bastian squatting over a small firebox at the edge of the loft. Its tender waved him toward a create nearby, as he fiddled with a pan over it.

"Was just sitting down to supper. I got a few chicken eggs today; made a nice crab scramble." Bastian scooped a random tea cup full, and held it out on offer.

"Thanks. I've had me supper, and won't take yours."

"I've more than enough. And not like it cost me…" He set the serving on Billy's knee, and wiggled a spoon at his guest.

 _No cost?_ "Did you pinch these eggs?"

The accused looked at him with a guiltless smile, "Asks the pirate."

Billy chuckled, and enjoyed a spoonful, as Bastian tucked into his own seat and bowlful. "I brought a bottle," he nodded to the sack he'd set beside him.

"An occasion, or just thirsty?" the chewing cook cocked his head to the side.

"A gift, perhaps, as I've a favor of sorts to ask."

Bastian was intrigued, and not just because he was unaccustomed to gifts.

"But first, how are you?"

The fork paused midway to still discolored mouth. "Well enough, I'd guess. Better for the meal, good company, and promise of a drink, treat, and mystery." Bastian wriggled his eyebrows.

Billy grinned at the good humor, and its indication of continued healing. "Glasses?"

Bastian stepped behind a canvas screen, and returned quickly with two battered pewter cups. He let Billy fill them, as he continued his own meal with gusto, and waited on the also expected explanation.

"The careening goes well. Thanks for asking," Billy smiled as he handed over a brimming mini-tankard of rum. He raised to match his host, "Our thanks for the quality goods by which to get it done."

"Me job and me pleasure!"

They drank.

Knowing it might be the apprentice's best, if not only significant, meal of the day, Billy waved Bastian back to it, and from his own bag carefully pulled a smaller one. As he untied its intricate knot, and then manipulated the still smaller box within, he explained bluntly, "I don't like good people being beat and threatened. Especially for no good reason. Especially good people I like. I also don't like being told, wrongly, who's good, who's worth knowin' and hangin' about with. Making decisions for meself's a large lure of pirate life." He glanced up occasionally, to see Bastian eating more and more slowly, as the younger man wondered more and more where the sharing was going.

"So, given that some others about apparently _don't_ share that view, I understand that it's smart, if not just, to keep our connection strictly business." He opened the box, revealing a few handfuls of dull and shiny coins.

Bastian gaped openly at the treasure, the shock deepening when Billy held it out toward him, offering it. His face roiled with astonishment, confusion, and more than a little suspicion.

"Take it. Though, it's not a gift. Technically, I'm paying you."

Bastian looked up in dawning horror. That he was being propositioned for his friendship. Or hired for more! And mostly, that it was Billy Bones suggesting either. "I may have grown up in whorehouse, but that doesn't mean—" he managed to eek out angrily, as disappointment in his "friend" began to overtake him.

"No! Bastian, no!" Billy realized, closing the box and shifting closer himself. "I'm asking you to keep it for me, my savings. I'd like you to safeguard it for me." He calmly placed the whole box in Bastian's lap.

Bastian looked even more overwhelmed, in an entirely different way.

"I didn't mean to insult; quite the opposite. You see, things in the camps are getting… stranger; and I can't keep this on the ship with me. And I want to prove, to you at least, how much I value our friendship, how much I value you. And if you'll do me this favor, we can both honestly say that money _has_ changed hands between us, that we _have_ an ongoing business relationship, a suitable reason to see one another."

Understanding began to show on Bastian's moonlit face, as Billy grinned and nodded reassuringly. He patted the box, encouraging Bastian to place his own hands on it, to confirm it real, and perhaps to accept responsibility for it.

"Billy, I don't know what to say…"

Billy whispered, "How about 'yes'?"

"I'm honored. Yes."

"Ha! Good man!" Billy shouted quietly, wrapping his beach banker in a relieved and grateful hug. He reached back for the bottle, and poured them each another round to seal the deal. "To our new and continued association?"

The drink seemed to bolster Bastian a little, further affirming that Billy had made a wise choice on all levels. He hadn't worried that Bastian would refuse, or be too afraid to accept; but still he was suggesting a burden he knew Bastian wouldn't take lightly. He was counting on that, in fact. He'd been concerned it was pushing too far on their brief, if steadfast and tested, friendship, making Bastian more of a target when he clearly knew himself one already. Slapping Bastian on the knee, Billy's sigh and smile could not have been more heartfelt.

Glowing from both toasts and trust, Bastian looked thoughtful before asking, "There's something I'd like you to see. Will you come?"

Now puzzled himself, Billy nodded. The relationship was mutual; the trust had to be two ways.

Grinning with growing satisfaction, Bastian doused his cookfire and lowered the rope ladder. "Bring the rum."

* * *

A little more than a quarter hour later, having picked their way through the chandlery's storeyard, the brush beyond, and up a rocky incline, Billy and Bastian stood before a small stack of stones visible in the moonlight.

"To Jolly," Billy raised his cup.

Bastian raised his; but could only bite his lip.

The pirate-come-lately rested his hand on the grieving master's sagging shoulder. "For Jolly," he repeated encouragingly.

"For Jolly," Bastian joined gruffly, downing his third full mug of the night.

Not needing a repeat of the night he met the fierce, four-legged friend, Billy gave the two-footed survivor a friendly jostle, and took the cup.

"Thanks," Bastian nodded. For the toast. The drink. The camaraderie. The shared memory. All of it. "But this isn't all what I wanted to show you." He pointed to the makeshift memorial. "So's you know, Jolly is six strides west. My strides, anyway."

"West of what?"

Bastian half-grinned, turned, and took a half-dozen long steps, stopping just at the base of a sprawling banyan tree. "You should fit," he grinned, waving Billy to follow him into the folds of the solitary grove, seemingly hung like a billowing, solid sheet across a stretch of sandy soil.

Looking about quickly, as much to remember where they'd come as to check whether they'd been followed, Billy ducked into the narrow passage. Moonlight blocked and no lantern brought, he had to feel his way along the cramped space. Despite years of folding his tall frame into tight spaces afloat and ashore, he began to feel claustrophobic when the wooden tunnel with an uneven floor seemed to shrink, curve, and stretch on and on.

He was about to call out, when Bastian confirmed, "Here," took his hand, and pulled him into a much larger chamber.

Seeing the confusion, if not concern, on Billy' face, Bastian didn't immediately let go, and instead pointed above them with his free hand.

In the still dim light, Billy looked up to a lop-sided ring of tree, opening roughly to a mix of canopy and constellations above them.

"What is this?" he asked, turning in place to marvel at the mix of cozy and cosmic around and above them. He gasped softly when his movement set a cascade of fireflies aloft like embers, slowly scattering beyond the edges of the frame around them, into the larger night.

Bastian smiled widely at having impressed the worldly newcomer, watching him as much as the surrounding scene. "This is home to my important things." He tugged Billy toward a particularly gnarled and angled section of the circling trunk, and led him up a twisting series of natural and nailed handholds. Well above the ground, where the tree became less battlements and more branching, he settled on a small, but sturdy few square feet of motley boards.

"You have a thing for heights, don't you?" teased Billy, as he settled onto the small platform with more than a little care and sudden realization. "Wait, closest thing to ship's rigging, and best views _off_ the island…"

Bastian flushed at the accurate deduction, adding, "Less horizon to wish for, even on the full moon. So I look up, as well as out." More graceful with his shorter limbs, he fluidly turned around and lay flat on his back, so that he could easily see beyond the overhanging leaves out toward the open ocean sky.

Hanging his satchel on a stubby knot, Billy joined best as he could, twisting onto his back, bending up his knees, and wedging in alongside and against the tree fort's keeper.

Bastian laughed at the awkward self-rearrangement, playfully poking him into a less self-conscious smile. "Sorry. I didn't build this with company in mind."

"I'm honored you'd squeeze me in…"

"We could grease it with a little more drink."

"This is plenty for me," Billy gestured to them both, the encompassing tree, and the huge expanse of stars beyond. "Did you want more?"

"I'm good," Bastian agreed honestly, aware he'd had quite a bit as it were. Perhaps it was those three mugs that allowed him to share abruptly, "Word is you finally visited the Inn." No judgement, just a shared fact.

Billy looked over, to see what motivation or value might be on Bastian's face, if not in his tone. Seeing none, he turned back to the starscape above them, which had witnessed much more history than the past week. "Aye. But, so you know, and despite the town's talk, I _have_ been before. Just not in a good while."

"Your introduction to 'Blackbeard,' best as anyone there can recall," Bastian shared from his clearly deeper inquiry.

"Are you still looking into my business?"

"You went looking into mine." Still no judgement.

 _Alice!_ Billy realized he had failed to make _not_ telling Bastian one of his tasks or conditions… "Bastian," he tried to turn, making little progress, "I know they're also concerned about you; and they're often in a position to…"

"Was that a prostitute joke?" Bastian interrupted with a wide grin, distracted or perhaps not so concerned about Billy's inquiries after all.

"What?"

"You said, 'they're often in a position…'"

"Oh. Well. I hadn't meant it like that, but…," he paused, entirely thrown off his defense, or complaint, or whatever his point had been. "They told me I'd missed your birthday. I'm sorry. And I still owe you a shirt; I haven't forgotten."

"A chest of gold is a fair substitute," Bastian smiled back, slightly more seriously. "And if you have questions about me or my business, just ask me, directly. I haven't got many secrets." _Nor get much interest in my business generally…_

Billy just stared at how non-plussed the young man seemed. Or perhaps tipsy. _And_ tipsy? Whatever the cause, he didn't seem to know or care that Billy had intervened around his assailants. Or he trusted Billy in that effort. _And_ trusted him?

Rolling with that nonchalance, and more than a little intrigued at the rosy confidence, he settled back down. He did have questions beyond those posed at the brothel. "Alright. Well, you said before that your mum was one of Noonan's women. What became of her?"

"She didn't even know she was having me, until she did. Middle of a visit with some afternoon cutsomer."

Billy tried not to show his shock, despite imagining the undoubtedly wild, troubling scene.

"I was tiny, but well enough. But word spread quickly; and she was finished in the trade, at least in Nassau. Had to move on." Bastian's gaze out into the heavens was more than physically faraway; his fingers fidgeted on his chest. "We were never close, didn't really stay in touch. So a parade of the girls raised me, outta sight until I could be useful 'round the Inn."

"And your father?"

"Don't know; no one does. And as many men as me mum'd been with…"

"Is that where the 'Nassau's child' nickname started?" Billy connected quietly.

"You've heard that, have you?"

Billy nodded simply.

"One of the nicer ones I've been called, to be honest." He turned his face away, as his hands stilled.

Billy knew enough of what people said of Bastian, and so focused on more accurate labels. "Don't often hear of the ladies at the Inn having more than a first name. Was your mum's surname 'Price'?

Bastian took a deep breath. "Mum gave it 'me as a reminder what all I cost her: her work, her freedom, her youth." Running a hand across his face as he shifted it under his head, he turned back. "What about you? Is 'Billy' your real name? Is 'Bones'?"

The traveled sailor took his turn to look up and out, considering the constellations and possibilities. Only two others in this part of the world knew his true—that is, his _original_ name. He'd well learned the importance of a pirate's name in suggesting a useful persona—of being both someone untraceable, and someone very much feared at the same time. And, as importantly for him, the new name protected his loved ones back in London from the knowledge of or revenge against his new life.

But here he lay in Bastian's secret, private place—perhaps one of only one beyond its builder to even know it existed, much less to have visited. Bastian who'd not stolen from him when he could have, who'd protected and potentially saved him in the beach melee, and who'd sacrificed health and pet for their friendship. If there was anyone else he could share with, anyone he wanted to… "I was William. William Manderly."

Bastian wriggled his other hand from between them, reaching back down to take Billy's, also crunched there. He shook it gently. "Nice to meet you, William."

William accepted with a smile and shake. "The pleasure's all mine, Sebastian."

And packed into the small space and deeper bond, neither bothered to break the connection as they continued to recollect and regale one another, until the first hint of dawn sent them scrambling back to not paying one another any attention in town.

* * *

 _tbc..._


	7. Storm Exposure

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Storm Exposure**

The late season storm arrived quickly, with a vengeance, and seemed to settle in, keeping many ships at anchor, and several more hopefully weathering or avoiding it at sea. Ashore, most crews maintained a sturdy, permanent storehouse on the beach, around which their more numerous and less waterproof personal lean-tos and tents crowded. Some seamen passed the rainy down time best they could in the common spaces, seeing to small tasks in preparation for trading wet shore for wet water. But as no ship's house was large enough to shelter more than a few fellows, most of Nassau's men traded time between the tavern and the inn, preferring those congregations to that of the less crowded church.

Enjoying the company, Billy also knew he'd have plenty of future opportunity to be crammed into small spaces surrounded by damp sailors. And that the initial landlocked joviality would likely give way to restless and rum-fueled reactions soon enough. So, he saw to his chores, circulated amongst his toasting and tale-telling brethren, and used the crowds to make a less obvious inquiry at Noonan's, before racing the rain to the far end of the beach.

Noting the delivery wagon but no horse obvious, Billy dripped and jingled his way through the net strung across the main entrance, calling loudly into the workshop maze in search of "Bastian?" While the wind was not as direct under the large roof, it whistled loudly nonetheless through the piles. And the sound of the beating rain on the heavy thatch overhead added to the likelihood that no one had heard him call.

Beyond salt and wet lumber, the faint tinge of smoke caught his nose, and led him toward the center of the building rather than to Bastian's loft or workbench at their respective ends. Encouraged by a clear whinny nearby, he made another few turns, finally stepping into a corner in the lee of tall, solid stacks of something. Two fire pits added light and a little heat to the makeshift work area in the sheltered, L-shaped space, across which a tethered horse paced in place nervously.

"Billy!" a familiar voice called out above him, as a small, strong figure dropped onto his back, twisting and mocking him with an unthreatening laugh, "Aaaah. You're soaking!"

Billy peeled off the ambusher with ease, dangling him off the ground, as he shook his own head at the defensive pummeling he'd very nearly given his would-be attacker.

"Put me down, ya damp lug!" Bastian flailed amusedly before him, unable to reach the captor or the ground.

Instead, Billy swung him handily under one arm, and strode casually to the fireside bench, commenting to the horse as his baggage laughed and squirmed. "I can see why you don't care for this one, Nero. Pain in the arse, he is." He punctuated the point with a slap to Bastian's aft.

"At least _you_ can decide when you carry him," Billy responded to himself in a mock voice. "All he does is tie me to things or sit on me…"

"If I promise some carrots, will you put _me_ down?" Bastian interrupted, with a few punches to Billy's posterior.

"Ho now, that's the signal to gallop," warned Billy, bouncing the smaller man up and down on his hip. "Is that what you want?"

"Whoa, boy!" Bastian finally gave in and played along properly. "I'll be sick…"

Point made and fun had, Billy whirled him around and planted him upright.

"Hope _you_ 're not expecting a bath and brushing," a ruddy Bastian grinned, catching his breath and bearings, and pulling his mane back into its own a small tail.

"I'll settle for the change of scenery from the crowded Guthrie stables," Billy explained. He stepped up to a fire, leaned his boots against the bench alongside, peeled off his useless shirt, and slowly turned in place, attempting to dry off despite the storm-saturated air.

"Certainly less company, if less comfy, here," Bastian acknowledged, settling on the bench's far end. "Have you eaten?"

Waving no need, Billy noted, "You run a welcoming house, Mister Price. Even improvised out of the storm's reach. Though, the sky's pissing on us for days on end, and you're straightening nails?" He picked up a mallet and pointed to the buckets of bent and slightly less bent irons beside the small anvil. It was a very practical, if temporary, set up beside the fire.

"Passes the time… I'd be pulling nails; but all the moisture's swole the wood. You're welcome to try your big arms at it," Bastian nodded to a claw hammer nearby. "Nero hates my banging; perhaps he'll grow to dislike you too."

Though Billy declined the suggestion, the horse looked no less irritably at either man.

"So I guess Gillespie isn't sleeping in through all this?" Billy thumbed toward the enclosed office and apartment.

Bastian shook his head with a slight smile. "He had me drop him off at the Soames' house as the storm arrived, probably telling them now that I've stranded him. Truth is, they have a good brandy selection; and of the nice houses, the most comfortable furniture nearest the fireplace."

Billy grinned despite his judgement on the businessman's penchant for taking advantage of all the actually hard-working people of Nassau, including his apprentice. Still, "He's not alone in that pursuit. All the town's three sheets in the wind for lack of anything else to do this weather holiday. Everyone except you."

"I'm equally fond of the storm, here or there," Bastian shrugged. "At least here, I'm not likely to be blamed for it…"

Billy's face darkened at the reminder of Bastian's poor standing in a town he so ably served. So, he traded humor for honesty, pointing out, " _I_ don't blame you. Mister Gates and Randall don't. I'd bet your sisters don't."

Bastian looked him with appreciation for the supportive effort, even if he'd only managed to give four exceptions to prove the rule of hundreds. But speaking of his unpopularity and those same prostitutes, "Have the girls had any success with your… assignment?"

Billy's face showed his disappointment. He'd swung by on his way here, hoping for a quick update, and a notable appearance, in the midst of their deluge-driven boon. He'd managed to catch Alice's eye across some scallywag's lap, long enough to get an apologetic shrug and shake of the head. That his own careful inquiries had produced little more, meant that no one was talking at all. And amongst men for whom aggressive accomplishment was its own currency, that silence around Bastian's beating was itself a rare and troubling sign.

"I know how much they enjoy your visits," their brothel-born brother offered in consolation. "Alice particularly is proud to have been chosen, if not actually getting to earn her coin _with_ you…"

"I only go to talk."

"You can talk to me for free..."

Billy knew this was a not entirely subtle suggestion that he should stop digging into the birthday attack. He knew the efforts made the younger man nervous, and not for himself. He nodded understanding, not compliance, assuring this audience, "I prefer the conversation here, to be sure. Are your sisters and Mister Noonan at least satisfied that I'm now gracing them with my attention and coin?"

Bastian nodded that the curiosity of his co-conspirators had indeed been largely sated.

"And are _you_?"

"What?"

"The more I've gotten to know you these past months, the less I'm inclined to think you were asking simply on their behalf."

"I've no right to wonder?"

"Wonderin' is different from followin' and pocket pickin' and askin'."

Bastian just looked away with a slight blush, picking at the plank he sat on.

"Shall I fetch some rum, and drink it out of you?" The silence was rare; but Billy knew wasn't necessarily a bad sign now. He sat down, all the better to hear a quieter sharing, never minding the howling wind and solely equine additional audience. "I really am just curious, not angry or bothered. I honestly don't understand—in a town so full of personalities as Nassau—what makes _me_ so interesting. Will you help me understand, please?"

Bastian sat a moment, perhaps considering his alternatives or his friend's persistence. He could feel Billy beside him, looking at him with polite pressure. Stretching his own legs out toward the fire, he began his explanation with a moment of direct eye contact. "Bien. But, so's we're shipshape, I _was_ honest that first night. There _was_ a lot of talk amongst the Inn-folk, about the missing customer you was. About how such a nice-looking bloke could have anyone he wanted; so who was it he was having? And I admit, I was curious too, having seen most men in Nassau come and go through those doors and those skirts. It was clear to everyone that, even beyond lost coin or conquest, you was… different…"

"I stand at least a head taller than everyone else," Billy smiled, with a growing nervousness. But he _had_ asked.

"That's _not_ the only way you stand out… I mean, you're also well known as a fierce, fearless fighter. Though you won't tell, everyone's heard stories of you, painted and howling as you lead the vanguard into the dark hold of some prize. Even if it's just tall tales for your reputation, which I don't think it is..."

Billy didn't argue.

Bastian shrugged, "There _are_ others whose repute on the account precedes them. But unlike most, you're also honest, fair, and kind, in a trade and a town where those ain't common or always useful ways to be. When he dares to wander this way, you treat the parson with some respect. Beyond showing no interest in the available ladies, you clean up more drunken rows than you're in. And you braved a storm to sit here, _again_ , despite what folks think of me. Shall I go on?" he grinned sympathetically, seeing Billy's discomfort at the listing.

"And rarer still than the nasty or nice fellow in Nassau, is one who can balance both. Captain Vane is hated; Flint, feared. The Guthries, Noonan and even Gillespie are tolerated out of necessity. Hornigold and Gates are certainly respected. But Billy Bones, he's actually, genuinely _liked_. By his own crew, other sailors, ladies who've never had him, merchants and urchins alike… You stand out 'cause you're a good pirate _and_ a good man."

Billy just stared into the fire, uncomfortable with the praise, however much the described actions were those he worked hard to embody.

"I was—I _am_ impressed and intrigued that you haven't made a habit of Noonan's. And as I've gotten to know _you_ over these months, I'm even more convinced it's not just tending to an image. So, I'm curious to know how you hold that strange balance, and why." Bastian looked over to where Billy sat deep in self-reflection. "Will you help _me_ understand?"

Hearing how he was perceived by others so clearly and earnestly described had both flattered and unnerved Billy. He was proud, for lack of a better word, that his actions did demonstrate his intentions of strength and justice; he just hadn't given much thought to how they might be seen as contradictions—both to avoid thinking about the undeniably harsh things he'd done, and because it was all done in service of the freedoms and self-determination that pirate life uniquely allowed. While his parents might not view it that way, to him, it was simply an extension of how he'd been brought up, perhaps pushed to extremes by his experiences since boyhood.

"Billy?" Bastian nudged his arm. His face showed worry, at the silence he'd caused, at the line he might've crossed.

"We're good," Billy assured, with smiling eyes and pat to his leg. "Sorry. 'Guess I've never heard it laid out so plain. Is that really how _you_ see me?"

Bastian nodded.

Billy sat forward on the bench, rubbing his hands unnecessarily in front of the fire. He took a deep breath, and looked up to the sounds of the wind and rain pounding above. With a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm his audience was still waiting on an answer, he began, "I'd told you my parents were Levellers, campaigning against the very impressment that put me to sea? Well, that wasn't the only cause they were about, as each came to that work from particular calling and experiences. My father was a lay minister, who felt his calling was to the lowest in society—the poor, the sick, and the morally corrupt. He even saved my mother from… from a brothel.

"So I grew up, my brother and me, hearing all about how the lowly had come to be; what poor choices or injustices had brought them down; how the law, the military, the church, nobility or neighbors had wronged them. I was raised aware and active against the worst of what people can do to one another. Around prostitution particularly, I heard first-hand about how the women are treated, how the men behaved."

Billy shuffled his feet in the sand, diving and breaching as he shared. "Mindful of the disapproving police, and proper parsons, and hired men of whoever we'd spoken out against, I learned to treat individuals well, and to challenge institutions and circumstances that didn't do the same—like forced service and poor treatment.

"I think that's why piracy appeals so much. Despite the killing, which my parents wouldn't stomach, it lets you select your trade and your company, to know and set the terms of your association, to treat and be treated well, and to have fair recourse if someone strays. It's hard, harsh work, to be sure; but it's for self, and family, and community–not just for eking out survival or meeking to the gentry."

He took another breath, and cast another glance at his rapt friend, perhaps a little taken aback by his own passion. "So, to your question, meeting who I've met, and hearing what I'd heard, I just can't stomach partaking in the brothels. It'd be one more thing I know my parents wouldn't understand if I ever… And even more, it's something _I_ just can't…"

Bastian counted breaths between them, just taking in the story Billy had shared. Nothing in it surprised him. Given what he'd known before the storm, he might even have guessed at some of the larger bits. And while not entirely unlike the troubled histories of many who'd found their way to Nassau, it certainly explained this pirate's unique blend of morality and murder, of anger and abstinence.

He sat forward, joining Billy in a contemplation of the flames before them and the fury above, before finally asking, "So when the crew sent you to see Blackbeard… That's really the only time?"

Billy nodded, _almost_ not embarrassed at his lack of experience. "First and final." He shrugged slightly and smiled with a little sadness.

Without further comment, Bastian stood and rummaged through a crate on the opposite side of the fire. Gathering an armful of something, he piled some dried apple where the ever-judging Nero could reach them, and returned to hand Billy a tankard. Wedging a second between his knees, he opened the good-sized bottle and offered to pour. "I packed two cups, in hopes you might show up," he smiled shyly.

Billy accepted with a silent appreciation for Bastian's anticipation and affirmation.

Bastian poured his own, tapped it against his guest's, and sipped it in slow solidarity as they sat shoulder to shoulder.

Sighing in contentment this time, Billy explained, "All the _Walrus_ knows the basics; Captain Flint, a little more: and Mister Gates, the most. But I never told anyone all of it. Until now." He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Bastian nodded, before looking over and up at the deeper friend. "If it's any consolation, I haven't done much either, by way of bedding or being bedded. Course I've seen, and heard, and accidently touched, and been told quite a bit about… pleasurable parts and play. But as most of the handy women were more kin than skin to me,"-he shuddered at the thought-"and the ladies protective against gentleman callers Noonan might rent me to… Well, I'm far more schooled than scored, compared to what most might expect of a brothel brat."

Billy grinned as Bastian did, "So… I'm not the only odd man out—when it comes to frequenting the Inn at least?"

Bastian wobbled his head, in partial agreement. "Well, you're still freakishly pretty for a pirate, and tall for any trade…"

Billy paused his drink with a stunned look at the sudden and not small slight. As a guilty grin slowly spread on Bastian's face, Billy lunged after the smaller man's attempted retreat.

Laughing and wrestling in celebration, the friends were oblivious that the play, and lack of additional treats, only added to the old horse's clear disdain.

* * *

 _A/N: Not entirely pleased with details/nuances of this one; but several rewrites haven't quite nailed it, and I want to move on to more plot vs character action in coming chapters. I may circle back; and will note so if it's updated. Thanks in meanwhile for visits, faves, alerts, and those all-inspiring reviews!_


	8. Christmas Wonders

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Christmas Wonders**

The crews mixed more or less freely across the chilly beach, the clusters of men around campfires not so divided by crew as was the norm, especially of late. With most merchant ships safely in some port for Christmas Eve, nearly every pirate ship was able to celebrate ashore as well. Rivalries, even some legitimate, were set aside as casks and plates were shared with a freedom rivaling their frequency. In view, but beyond the reach of, the church, the ribald revelry was on pace to continue well into the blessed holiday itself.

Only when the third pebble bounced off his shoulder or head, did Billy realize the strikes were intentional and specific to him, rather than consequence of nearby roughhousing or delirious "dancing." Two plates of glazed ham and a few warm rums into his own festivities, he looked up into empty sky before turning away from the fire.

Behind him, at the edge of the flickering light's reach, he finally picked out a familiar face as it moved in the shadows beside a shack.

Bastian held a finger to his mouth, and then motioned Billy toward him.

His smile quickly squelched for the sake of discretion, the sailor stood, stretched, and excused himself before the next verse of the barely recognizable hymn-shanty hybrid began.

"You let those Christmas spirits move through you too quickly, Bones," Muldoon cackled.

"So don't drink the rest before I'm back," he fired back, stopping to right a toppled crewmate as he made his way toward the beach, and then double-backed into the tent maze. Presuming Bastian had seen him underway, and had presumed his indirect route, he wound his way deeper into the camp, trusting the lurking visitor would find him.

"Aw'right, Billy!"

"Careful with those bottles, Froom," he warned back, out of concern for the wobbling crewmate, and to call attention to both his location and the passer-by.

Once the sailor stumbled on, Billy changed directions again, keeping an eye out for other interactions, wanted and not. A tap to his shoulder whirled him around, to catch a glimpse of movement beside the _Walrus_ shiphouse.

Making his way to the most shadowed side, he found Bastian squatting beside a squat tent whose sun-bleached color almost matched his thin shirt.

"What's the pass phrase?" Bastian grunted from under his cap, as Billy stooped beside him.

"Um, 'Happy Christmas'?"

"Near enough," grinned the chandler. "Where can we talk?"

Billy waved him to follow, both staying low as they shifted a row over. Reaching a low, but long-ish lean-to, Billy nodded Bastian in, took a glance around, and followed. "It's not much," he apologized.

"It's all yours," Bastian marveled, as he easily took it all in. "I recall your squeezing into my place several times; so, we're even."

Clearly little more than a space long enough for Billy to lie down on the now rolled mat, the four stakes holding up the roofline left them just enough room to sit facing each other, the highest point barely above the taller man's head. The reclaimed canvas of the slanted walls let in just enough light to see expressions, as they took a moment to take in one another.

"You're cold," Billy quickly deduced from the shivering Bastian was trying his best to hide.

"It's cold out there."

"This is really not cold," corrected the London native.

"Alright, not _proper_ cold; but cold enough," retorted the man who'd never seen ice. "I had on more, but it was too… frilly."

"Frilly?" Billy chuckled, looking through his few spare bits, stuffed into netting hung from each pole.

"Gillespie had me dress up in some ridiculous thing, so we'd look his finest for all the Christmas parties he planned to attend tonight. We even strung Nero with palm garlands, poor thing. Thankfully, my good master passed out in the cart after our second stop; so I took him home, covered him with the frock, and snuck here."

As he'd explained, Billy had draped two old shirts over Bastian's shoulders, hoping the extra layers might help, however tattered. Adjusting them for maximum coverage and then rubbing some heat into Bastian's upper arms, he looked up to share a wicked grin with the errant apprentice.

"Sorry I couldn't come earlier…"

"Well, for once I appreciate his flagrant excess, if it gets you some time away to celebrate here."

Beyond the standing, unofficial restriction on his fraternizing openly with any of the crews, Bastian's celebrating was restricted in another way as well. "I shouldn't stay long. Nero's settled in; but Gillespie's still laid out in the cart."

Billy looked sincerely disappointed at the drunkard's ability to impose on the friends, even when unconscious.

"But I'm here now, as I didn't want to wait on the chance of catching you tomorrow. I have something for you…" Bastian dug into his own shirt, and pulled out a coil of leather.

"Bastian…"

"Hush you," Bastian glared at the attempt to protest, as he unrolled the ball. "I ain't the greatest sail-maker, but the same skills work well enough on leather I got from the currier. Hold out your hands."

A stern glance convinced Billy to accede, humbly and curiously.

Bastian pushed back Billy's sleeves, and began untying the leather around his wrists. "You've mentioned your bracers have seen better days. But, I wasn't sure about the exact measures; so I thought that some wide straps, wrapped around might be even better." Setting aside the old wrist-guards, he ran his rough hands gently over the rarely exposed skin, and began coiling the new, soft strips.

Billy just watched him with a mix of awe, at his benefactor's thoughtfulness, creativity, skill, attention, and generosity.

Bastian explained as he dressed, "As it's not a solid piece, it should give you a little more flexibility, and the softer cure, more comfort, while still supporting and protecting your wrists from sharp edges and spooling lines."

As Bastian started the second arm, Billy twisted and flexed his new accessory—flexible, firm and comfortable, as promised.

Quickly done, Bastian looked up nervously to check how his gift had been received.

Billy's wide smile through whirling hands and arms made it fairly clear, even in the dim light. "They're perfect," he confirmed. "I'll think about you every time point, pull or parry! Thank you."

Bastian beamed back, soaking up Billy's satisfaction like so much pineapple cake. But then he saw the look of sadness that passed quickly over Billy's face, as he looked down, again taken aback, at his gift. "Billy?"

"Sorry. I just- I'm—You…," he seemed to struggle for words, before admitting quietly, "You remind me of Grover, my..."

"Your little brother," Bastian understood—flattered, sad, and disappointed all at once. "Is that how you see me?"

Billy blinked rapidly, looking out to the glows beyond the tent. "Yes, sometimes. Now, in how you are thoughtful, cheerful, and so generous. This was- He loved Christmas."

"I didn't mean-"

"No," Billy insisted, putting a newly clad hand on Bastian's shoulder. "You're like him, in the best ways. But you're more to me than a childhood pest or playmate. Which makes me all the more grateful for you and your perfect gift, and regretful at what little I have to give in return." He sat back, knowing it was his turn.

"You don't have to-"

"But you ruined a shirt on me."

"Which you replaced."

" _And_ I missed your birthday."

"Which you'd no reason to know. And you've found me two pineapples since!"

Unsurprised by the excuses offered for him, Billy pushed on, "I _have_ been trying to get something really special for you, for a while. I'd hoped in time for Christmas; but it isn't quite ready yet. It's spoken for; just… not finished."

Bastian wasn't sure what to make of that description.

"And I obviously hadn't found you earlier today; so I'm glad you got away tonight, for us to make a proper exchange. As timing doesn't appear to be my strength, I hope I can make up for it with sincerity… Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just do it. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Unable to argue otherwise, and unwilling too, Bastian shook his head with lessened suspicion.

"Close 'em; and keep 'em closed."

Bastian took a breath, and did as instructed. Almost immediately, he heard the quiet rustle of fabric and soft clink of glass or metal, before sensing Billy leaning toward him, and feeling Billy's breath on his cheek. Something brushed against his neck, as Billy's hands reached around, under his hair, to fumble with something on the nape of his neck before withdrawing.

"Alright; you can open."

Bastian's eyes popped open in curiosity, following Billy's gaze and his own feeling, to a small, bright object hanging in the notch of his neck. Eyes wide, he pulled it up enough to see that it was a simple ship's anchor. He immediately recognized it as identical to one Billy wore on his own chest, one now absent there.

Billy saw him glance over, making the connection, and jumped in to explain, "I know you'd never pick one if offered, so I chose for you."

"I can't accept-"

"You just have. As good as I've been at taking, I wanted to give you something that meant a lot to me, so you'd know how much I meant it."

Bastian was a little taken aback by the sudden shift to the serious.

Billy ran his fingers through the remaining beads and baubles around his neck. "Some of these were given me; some caught my eye for look or rarity. But that one, I bought from a shop in Tortuga, because it reminded that life at sea, however free, requires a port, a home, a rock, else it's just wandering the waves."

Bastian swallowed at the sharing, perhaps being more uncomfortable at this gift of words than if Billy had given nothing at all.

"You have fed me and fought for me, saved me and shed blood for me, shared drinks and downpours, made me smile and made me smarter. And you've never asked a thing of me for it."

Nothing _would definitely have been more comfortable._

"Especially at Christmas, I miss my first family. Most days, I love my life at sea. And of late, I'm particularly glad to have you here, as good example each day, and as a good cause to come back each sailing." He reached out and took Bastian by both shoulders. "I've not known you long; and you may be young, and not yet a pirate; but you're one of the best men I've ever known, Sebastian Price."

He pulled Bastian in for a firm embrace, whispering, "And as soon as the puppies are born on the Rolle farm, you're to have first pick of the litter."

Bastian almost released him in surprise, before pulling tight again. He absolutely shone with joy as they pulled apart; and he would have struggled to list all the reasons why if asked.

Billy ruffled his hair, relieved and revived that Bastian was so pleased with the physically small token and mere promise of more.

Bastian looked down at the new badge of Billy's esteem for him, twisting it gently in his fingers in confirmation and welcome. He looked up at the gifter, opening his mouth as if to say more, before his shoulders dropped with a sigh. Almost regretfully, he quietly concluded, "I _am_ grateful, for this, for you, for everything. But… I should be going."

Billy mirrored his sudden deflation. "Oh. You sure you can't stay, just little while longer? I could get _you_ some food for a change, or…"

"I'd like to, honestly. But, this is already my best Christmas; I daren't risk for more. And I _have_ left Gillespie unconscious, in a wagon, on the Eve…"

"True. Which means he won't know the difference a few more-"

"But _I_ would. And would pay dearly should something happen." He grinned in sad sympathy. "You're not the only one with obligations to others."

Billy nodded with understanding, if disappointment; but refused to initiate the parting.

"Happy Christmas, Billy," Bastian finally wished, as he pulled off the makeshift blankets and made to stand.

"And to you, Bastian," the pirate reciprocated, following suit.

But before he could get too far, Bastian took a deep breath, took Billy's face in his hands, leaned in quickly, and pressed his mouth flat against Billy's, halting them both mid-rise. And then, without waiting for response or reaction, he turned and bolted from the tent.

But not quickly enough to prevent Billy's longer reach catching his trailing arm, leveraging the captor upright through the flaps, and whirling Bastian around to face him.

Bastian was wide-eyed, as a flushed Billy pulled him back, easily cupped the back of his head, searched his face for a long instant, and then drew him in for a slow, careful, proper kiss. Softly locked, a racing calm passed through both, while a warm contentment circled around them, as sure as did the evening's rum and raucous celebrations. Christmas could have come and gone for all they knew; Christ himself might have returned for all they cared. All the map and every hour was reduced to this simple shared moment and connection, both unexpected and inevitable…

"Eh-hmm," a throat nearby cleared.

Billy released Bastian instantly, as both turned toward the apparent audience.

A surprised _Walrus_ boatswain stood stock still not ten feet away, mouth slightly ajar.

The younger men glanced at one another, Bastian curious what Billy thought the older might do, and Billy not able to say.

Randall tilted his head down, keeping his gaze directly on the nervous pair. "When I agreed to check in on our wayward shipmate, I can honestly say, of all the distractions I'd imagined delaying him, _this_ was not among them."

Bastian steeled himself to stand with Billy against whatever shout or slurs they'd invited.

Billy readied himself to step in front of Bastian, and push him toward an open escape route.

"And I ain't easily surprised. So… good on you for that!" Randall grinned with genuine amusement, his demeanor softening into a full body laugh. It soared slightly as the culprits sighed in unison, before settling down as he wiped his eyes. "That said, Master Price, Mister Bones's still expected back to the festivities—promptly and…," he paused as some apology crept into his voice, "alone, I'm afraid. I'm sure Father Christmas will find you as well, if not easier, at home."

Despite what had been interrupted, the vicarious pirate didn't need to be told twice. "Thank you, Mister Randall. Good night, Mister Randall. Happy Christmas, Mister Randall," he stammered between nervous glances at Billy, before scrambling off into the night.

Billy looked after him and then back, wiping his hands on his trousers in his own nervous, if less chatty way.

But Randall waved away his concern with a warm smile. "S'alright, Billy. That do explain a few things… But mainly means I may have two less, more fetching competitors with the ladies, don'it? And goodness knows, I could use any extra sail I can on that heading! Nah, I see no reason to rub all their noses in it, regardless," he tipped his head back to the crew fire, and then his chin in the direction Bastian had run. "Besides, we likes him."

Billy breathed for the first time in several moments.

"Now, I _was_ sent to find you, as the boys _are_ lookin' for you. I'll be along shortly," Randall slapped his arm as he passed, and winked. "But afore I cozy up to my next plate of that excellent roast pig, I need to clear me ballast…"

As the older man ambled merrily to a more private locale, Billy looked down the beach to the chandlery, as if Bastian had had time to get there, unload his master, or would show any light once home any way. He briefly considered following, as their gift exchange had clearly come to an abrupt end; but, running his fingers over his lips with a smile, he decided to revisit that unfinished business at a later time. To head off additional searches, and relish his surprisingly happy Christmas, he headed back to Yule bonfire brimming with holiday cheer.

* * *

Billy didn't sleep that night. He wasn't kept awake by bawdy or brotherly company, near or far. He wasn't guilty for returning to the late night bonfires as requested, or celebrating something beyond and unknown to his shipmates' joy. He wasn't over- or under-full or –tired from his renewed revelry. And he certainly wasn't waiting on a visit from Father Christmas.

Rather, lying restlessly in his just-enough tent, his heart and mind were awash with the visitor and gift he'd actually had, and his own unforeseen reaction to it all. He still held the cap Bastian had failed to take in his… complicated departure; he'd found it on his return, and hadn't put it down, in hand or mind.

He really hadn't expected yet another gift from Bastian; but he wasn't at all surprised by the bracers. Nor had he anticipated the kiss given; but neither was he entirely surprised by it. He had planned to give the necklace to Bastian, the least he could do for the man's long habit of selflessness. But he would never have predicted his urge to reciprocate the physical affection, much less to allow it, never mind be so exhilarated by it. Even hours later, it was still not unlike the rush of battle, and so much truer than locking lips with the half-dozen unrelated women with whom he'd had the opportunity in his twenty years. It was a surprise on every level, and splendid for it.

It was only when the commotion outside matched his internal chaos that he realized what time had passed, that the sun had begun to rise. Yet another figure ran past his tent toward the tide of whispers not far beyond. Not sure what could catch and keep the attention of tired and hungover pirates, but certain it demanded a look-see, Billy didn't bother to put his jacket or boots back on.

Exiting into the rosy dawn, his eyes and ears were caught immediately by the crowd beside the shiphouse. Recognizing members of his own and other crews gathered around something, he eventually pushed deep into the gathered yawns and murmurs, to learn what could attract such a sunrise congregation.

Peering into the open half-circle over the heads of a row or two of gawkers, he almost didn't notice Randall's bloodied head sitting in the sand amidst the spray of gore around it.


	9. Unexpected Rendezvous

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **9\. Unexpected Rendezvous**

Sensing the commotion or summoned to it, Mister Gates arrived across the crowd, sighing and swearing. "Well don't just stand there taking it all in, you dolts. Someone get the doc," he grumbled, before seeing and waving in Billy and a few trusted others. He knelt beside the head, and hesitantly felt at the neck and base.

"For fuck's sake," he groused, brushing away some of the sand before pulling himself up back up quickly. "He's very much alive, just buried!" He barked to the closest men before turning to the larger crowd, "Dig 'im out, carefully now. Alright, you lot, if you've seen or heard something useful, speak up; else clear out."

"Ain't that Betsy's head and tail?" asked one sailor in the front row, pointing to two different spots in the splatter.

All eyes darted between these largest, identifiable bits, and the wider spread of blood and bits.

"Someone's offed his cat, and covered Randall in it," Billy deduced, now repulsed, beyond concerned and angry.

"He looks whole enough, save the mess," Morley explained, having exposed the boatswain's bruised, but intact body, just as a freshly woken Doc Howell arrived.

As more sand was wiped from the still non-responsive Randall, it became clearer he'd been laid out in a shallow trough, leaving his head exposed, but not putting him too deeply into the sand.

"Meant to look worse than it is," Billy further suggested, stepping away to make space.

"It's a message, to stoke tensions," Gates surmised to him quietly, before turning to the still thick crowd. "I'll ask again: As he can't have been here long, anyone know or notice anything from last night that might help-"

There was a light murmur and much looking about, as hope and curiosity continued to mix through the assembly.

"C'mon, boys!" Gates cajoled, "Your boatswain's been beaten…"

"I saw the West bastard skulking about not long a'fore midnight," offered one voice.

"Find him!" the shouts began immediately. "Cursed boy!"

Billy turned toward the direction of the speaker, noting several faces turned toward a grim looking Crisp. Clenching his hands and jaw, he started toward the all-but-accuser.

"Justice for Randall!" "Justice for Betsy!"

"Hang on just a minute…," Billy tried to interrupt the growing swell.

"A head for a head!" "The roastin' fire's not yet out!"

Re-ignited after a long night and sudden surprise, the crowd began to break up, handy sticks, bottles, and more in hand.

"NO!" Billy reached out for the weapon-gathering sailor nearest him.

But Gates grabbed him, knowing immediately that his young sailor would fight the whole beach for a friend, even with no shoes on or hope of prevailing. "Billy! I know you mean to help; but Bastian's quick and smart, and furthering your connection to him won't help either of you any. See to Randall, and let me run this… drunken flotilla in circles 'til they get bored."

Eyes remaining on the grudgingly obedient Billy, Gates waved a group to follow him toward the fort—the last place Bastian would likely be. Even as he slowly jogged, he could see a level of concern in Billy's face he'd not seen before; Billy was genuinely afraid, and not for his crewmates.

* * *

Bastian hadn't slept that night. Running breathless from the beach encounter, he'd remained so trying to rouse or relocate his master. Confirming him immobile, the dutiful apprentice had ensured him well and warm, and then wrapped himself in a blanket in the same wagon, on irritated but attentive watch.

Despite the solitary vigil, he remained breathless as he watched the continued activity down by the bonfires, and considered his own night. He'd been nervous to be in the heart of the camp at all, with well-sauced sailors everywhere, never mind his beached whale of a master vulnerable back at the workshop. He hadn't expected to do more than present Billy with the new bracers, and hopefully to receive a precious smile in return. So, he could not have been more surprised or elated when Billy not only loved his gift, but offered a literal token of appreciation, and then shared the clearly long-planned, hard-wrought promise of a puppy. The hug and pressure to stay had simply put him over the moon.

Despite fearing to risk more joy beyond those gifts alone, the night's earlier tin or two of rum were apparently just enough to compel the initial, awkward kiss that could easily have gotten him killed. And as if that hadn't put him enough on ecstatic edge, that Billy replied in careful kind! Bastian shuddered not from cold, but from a fresh blush, as he huddled on the wagon bench.

And then, discovered, he'd fled at the first safe chance, leaving Billy alone with only Randall's kind amusement. _Shite!_ , what had that suggested of his feelings and dependability? Knowing that Billy was unlikely to follow, what had he been left to think, question, or decide? And what exactly _had_ that night meant? For him? To Billy? For them?

As tentacles of doubt spread in his mind, the first hints of dawn also began to trickle over the horizon. Eyes drawn to the glow across the water, Bastian realized he'd been caught for hours in an eddy of thought—wonder and worry round and round and round. And he didn't care for that not knowing, and wouldn't leave Billy with that uncertainty either.

Confident that daylight wouldn't bring any ill-intended visitors the night hadn't already, he covered Gillespie entirely with the blanket, fetched his jacket, and made his way back toward the camps via the denser structures of town.

Approaching the _Walrus_ area from its inland side, he could tell quickly that it was much more active than he'd have expected so early after a festive night. Drawing closer, it was clear from the size and make-up of the gathering, that something unusual and unpleasant was afoot. With sudden shouts and rattling, the crowd began to disperse in small parties with a seemingly common purpose—a hunt.

When one of the _Ranger_ crew caught sight of him watching from a dark porch, the profanity and pursuit made it clear that he was involved, whether or not he understood or wished to be.

* * *

The bottle had been too heavy to be empty; and the sticky sting on the side of his head suggested its prior holder had been sober enough to aim well. Recovering from the impact-instigated stumble, Bastian turned down the next alley, hoping the broad leafed-plant at its mouth would mask his sudden change in direction.

He took a moment in the shadows to shake his head clear and to consider his next move. The shouts and taunts made it clear that his pursuers knew him; and so his own home and shop would provide no refuge. What few folks were still awake at the tavern had come to the doors at the commotion from the street, and others were waking to the chase; no slipping silently in amongst them. And, unorganized as the angry mob was, they had still managed to anticipate his likely retreat to the brothel, and so cut off that escape as well. Short of the odd stable or full flight to the interior, what sanctuary did that leave him?

 _Sanctuary!_ If he cut through the butcher's pigpen, he might be able to reach the church. Listening as one search party passed the way he'd come, he stood and staggered toward the familiar landmark's unfamiliar interior.

Finding the sacristy door mercifully unlocked, his adjusting eyes were drawn to the soft glow from the main room's stained glass. Simple by original design and recent neglect, the neat pews there offered more, if still few hiding places; and so he threw himself onto the floor of a random row, and tried to calm his breathing.

The pair of boots beside his head were the first sign he might have chosen unwisely. Slowly looking up, Bastian followed the attached legs and seated torso to the raised eyebrow and flat scowl of an auburn-framed face everyone in Nassau would recognize, if not regret meeting. "Captain Flint," he whispered in defeat.

* * *

 _AN: This and next chapter were too long as one, so I've broken it inequitably, at good moment!_


	10. Unexpected Gifts

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **10\. Unexpected Gifts**

"You reek of shit," the pirate captain noted without other reaction to the suddenly present and prone young man.

"The Blessed family took refuge in the ox's stall," Bastian blurted without thinking, less emboldened by, and more entreating, their location and the date.

Flint's face flickered at the comeback, before pointing out, "You're also bleeding."

Bastian put a hand to his throbbing temple; and it came away coated in more than rum. "In good company," he nodded to the crucifix at the altar, perhaps also complimenting the _Walrus_ chief officer.

"But _yours_ is the only trail likely to be followed by whoever's chasing you."

Bastian's eyes went wide, as he realized the observation's truth; he very well may have mapped his route in bright red spots. He sat up slightly, better to face or flee as needed.

"And who is it you're running from?" Flint asked almost casually.

With painfully little thought, Bastian shared the truth. "Mostly your crew, sir."

Flint still didn't react, even to that revelation. His hands remained calmly folded in his lap, holding the book he'd perhaps been reading when interrupted. "And what exactly would set my crew after you on Christmas morn?"

Bastian swallowed, wondering how he could do anything other than continue his honesty in this place and with this man. He trusted Randall well enough; and so guessed that someone else had witnessed the kiss, and stoked the beach. "I was open about what I thought of one sailor in particular. And I don't think the others took it well."

"Perhaps the truth was a poor gift this season? Insults are seldom accepted graciously, especially by my crew."

"Only it weren't an insult, Captain; very much the opposite," the young man corrected. The final, happier fact brought a brief glow to his confession, "And I believe he knew that, and felt the same; I do. But someone clearly didn't share that view, and rallied the men when I returned to clarify with him."

Flint continued making sense of the odd sharing. "So this is all some… unfortunate difference of opinion?"

"Most unfortunate. Sir."

Flint just stared at him, or into and through him—sizing him up, or perhaps deciding how to tear him down. "And if we were to go out and explain it to them, invite this sailor to confirm your intentions, and his 'opposite of insult'… Might that return some holiday peace on earth?"

Bastian dropped his head, not having hoped for that particular offer of resolution. "I fear, sir, a full telling would only make it worse, for your man most of all."

"What a terrible truth between you, then."

"No," Bastian corrected, with another quick memory and matching smile. "But they all believe the worst of me already. So best we let stand that story, and leave him from it."

That selfless intent caught the pirate's attention. "You think enough of him to suffer for him?"

Bastian didn't hesitate in direct look or quick response. "To keep him from harm, I do, sir."

Flint silently tapped his book, his gaze passing over the more relevant crucifix, to less present sacrifices offered and made for affection. He looked back to the boy with a… softer glance. "Up with you then. Such conflict amongst my crew and the town serves no one, especially not on Christmas." He stood, and pulled the disbelieving townsman to his feet.

"But, sir…"

"We'll get it sorted without further harm to either of you," Flint insisted. He didn't share the likelihood that, if the mobs were coming for this outsider, they had likely already seized and censured his sailor—a crewing and morale problem enough in itself. Though he wasn't yet clear on _how_ to resolve it, he was clear that letting the remaining hunt succeed or the tension remain wouldn't be helpful given recent events. And, less for the collective, he also suspected a deeper meaning in the plight of the young man who'd appeared in his private reflection with Marcus Aurelius this somber dawn; and he couldn't fathom letting that rare connection go undefended…

The boy still wasn't moving, suspicious of his motives or doubtful of his ability to deliver. Flint turned and offered the only justification he would. "That's a rare devotion you've shown, Mister Price, even amongst the brotherhood of pirates." He finally smiled slightly at the reaction, "You're surprised I know you?"

Bastian nodded, adding, "And I haven't even said who your man is."

The captain dismissed the concern as he headed toward the main doors. "No matter; I'm not doing it for him. Perhaps it's best I don't know, and regret my decision for my opinion of him."

* * *

While no one questioned, challenged, or otherwise engaged the duo directly, word nonetheless spread quickly that Captain Flint had found and caught the fugitive apprentice. As the fabled pirate walked the young man somberly through town, a single guiding hand on his shoulder, various crews and curious onlookers fell in behind them. Whispers swirled, questioning how the Captain had caught him, or had even known to be looking in the first place, as he hadn't even been present when Randall was found. A few even wondered how the grim-faced captain kept the frightened-looking and unbound chandler from running again. The impossible knowledge, solo capture, and unearthly control of men only added to Flint's mystique.

Motley mob in tow, they approached the less busy center of the _Walrus_ camp, where the red-stained sands drew a fierce glare from Flint and a complex realization of horror from Price.

Meanwhile, word of Flint's victorious arrival spread within camp too; and with a nod from Howell, Billy rushed to join the budding pirate court.

From the opposite direction, Gates came running up, his shouts more casual than his speed, "Ah, Captain! What a surprise! Happy Christmas!" He took Bastian by the elbow, and led them apart from the growing audience. As he quietly caught them up to speed, Flint looked from the feline explosion, to the younger man's vehement hand and head shakes, beyond Billy to where Randall was being cared for, and back to growing pallor of his "prisoner."

Bastian glanced around furtively, finally finding Billy in the crowd. Despite the clear fear on his face, he shook his head as Billy made to step toward them.

"It's ludicrous; but they're convinced the boy did it," Gates concluded with a sorrowful look at Bastian.

Flint squinted in the full morning sun, surveying the expectant looks from the growing crowd.

Bastian began his defense, "I-"

Flint cut him off quietly and firmly, without looking back. "Just keep your mouth shut, and that look of wrongful accusation, sharp."

"But I haven't-" the accused felt the need to continue.

Now Flint glared, hissing at the rare non-compliance. "As you suggested earlier, they don't really _care_ whether or not you did. They just want blood. So unless you want to spill yours, just play along. Silently."

Gates placed his hand on Bastian's free shoulder, freeing Flint to begin, just as Singleton shouted from the gallery, "Captain, he was seen in camp between when Randall left the fires and was found like this. We've an obligation to Randall, and a right ourselves, to justice. We're all better off if the boy hangs."

Across the circle, Billy struggled in place—unsure how to help, and whether Flint would. Gates' worried expression didn't much encourage him.

Flint laughed out loud, as strange for him as it was out of place given the circumstances. "So am I to understand that you all… think this, this… breeze of a boy… snuck into camp, overpowered Randall, buried him up to his neck, caught and dismembered a house cat—all without making a single sound or otherwise being noticed, except in his supposed retreat? Not by anyone here?" He paced the stained sands, gesturing to each piece of feline evidence as he wondered aloud. "And then, having gotten away with it in the dark of night, returned with daylight to the exact spot he and the crime would very likely be seen? Master Price here is a storied son of New Providence Island, to be sure. But for all his qualities, I must doubt that he could be both that strong, swift, and silent, and that stupid."

"Maybe he had help," suggested a voice from Singleton's vicinity.

Flint nodded, cocking his head to one side as if considering the suggestion. "Or given how clearly unpopular he is amongst everyone on this beach, it was someone else entirely, happy to point fingers his way despite his complete lack of motive or means. In either case, it seems we're standing around here, focusing on the easy target, rather than the real, and likely bigger threat."

Singleton met his gaze coolly, as mixed grumbles rippled around.

Bastian wouldn't make eye contact with Billy; he just looked from speaker to speaker, an honest fear on his face.

Gates interjected to add some additional perspective. "Aye; and I think the good men of the _Walrus_ and other ships don't want to be known for skipping the larger prize for the small. Just as the good women of Noonan's won't take too kindly to the crew who hangs or guts their little brother."

The mutterings ended abruptly.

"In fact, I daresay Master Price is well aware of his popularity in these parts; and so didn't visit lightly, or tarry long enough to maim or kill anyone. No, I expect he was here for a very specific reason, to see a very special someone."

Bastian, Billy and even Flint turned abruptly to marvel at _that_ startling and perhaps more dangerous suggestion.

Gates just smiled as he called out more loudly, "Mademoiselle, are you here?!"

From amongst the ship and townsfolk in attendance, one young woman pushed through onto the sandy stage, making sure everyone got a good look at her as she sauntered over to the _Walrus_ quartermaster, with friendly and too friendly glances at anyone who caught her eye.

"Good Miss Alice," Gates nodded politely, still speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Would you mind sharing with the gathered good people what you told me when I inquired after our mutual friend here?" He cheerfully pushed the baffled Bastian out toward her.

"Sebastian!" she shouted with wild affection, throwing her arms up and around him, as she peppered his cheeks and face with kisses. "When you didn't come back, we were so worried!"

Flint looked to Gates, not understanding or appreciating the surprise addition to his persuasive performance. Gates just winked, and nodded his head in reassurance.

Alice continued, overacting her sadness with wrung hands and pouty lips. "For all the Christmas visitors we've enjoyed at the Inn, my sisters and I took notice of a particular absence last night. We'd _so_ hoped one certain sailor would pass a little holiday time with us. You all know how we do love a good Yule log!" she played to the crowd that now smiled and chuckled at her innuendo.

"So, just after midnight, I sent our little Bastian down to the beach as a messenger on our behalf, with an invitation for that missing man to come and claim his Christmas gift." Adjusting her bustier, she'd begun to pace along the front row of onlookers, intentionally playing coy with the identity of the mystery invitee. "Told not to stop for anything, dear Bastian returned almost immediately with an unhappy answer; we was spurned!" She feigned shock and disappointment, leaning against a random sailor as if for comfort.

"We were _so_ sad—heartbroken really—at the refusal, that it was only the good company of so many of you fine fellows what 'kept us distracted until dawn. But in the light of Christmas Day, I decided that we'd been good girls—mostly—all year; didn't we deserve a little appreciation, at Christmas at least? Right, big Mister Hamund?" she tickled the nose of one glum sailor, with a glancing cup of his groin.

"So I sent him down here again, to _insist_ that our wayward gentleman join us… in the generous spirit of the season. It was only the Christian thing to do! But, alas, our darling Bastian barely got beyond the smithy, when he's turned away by an unhappy crowd, claiming he's gone and taken a ninth and maybe tenth life down here!"

Now looking shocked, she'd returned to Bastian, stepping behind him. "But that's something, our sweet, sweet Bastian would never do," she promised, as she reached over his shoulders to pinch his cheeks, before pointing out loudly, "Something he _couldn't_ have done, as he was helping us all night, even when someone here noticed him on our mission of mercy."

Her sad contrition returned, very briefly. "No, I'm afraid you've got the wrong man; and I'm sorry I can't help you with your mystery attacker. But, on behalf of my sisters, I've come to claim our favorite, and innocent, brother…" She took Bastian's hand, before moving swiftly, if seductively, to lay a hand on her second prize. "And to claim my own, hopefully less innocent Christmas gift!" She sashayed right up to Billy, pulled him down by the necklaces as she pushed against him, and planted a long, deep kiss on him.

The nearest faces were stunned, while the farther crowd began to whistle, shout and clap as the tiny woman took control of and wouldn't let go of the much larger man.

Finally breaking off, she exclaimed a hearty, "Happy Christmas!," before taking Billy's hand and leading her two selected men through the hooting and almost entirely distracted crowd, back toward the town.

Flint turned back to Gates, who could only grin and shrug, before refocusing the now entertained gathering, "Well, with that cleared up, shall we return to Captain Flint and Mister Singleton's idea that we actually have other feline and would-be murderers amongst us?"

* * *

Knowing the plan to cover for Bastian, a crowd of Noonan's girls were waiting anxiously.

"Alice, thank you!" Bastian turned and threw his arms around her as soon as they'd stepped into the relatively empty Inn. "That was… was just amazing! Thank you; thank you all!"

As Billy grinned in gratitude, he coolly let some of the brazen bevy hug him while Bastian worked his way genuinely through his childhood family.

With Bastian safely delivered to the harem's safety, Alice smiled, exhaled, and finally explained for the curious looks the boys shared as well. "Mister Gates swung by and let us know what was happening. We're of course very sorry to hear about kind Mister Randall; but we couldn't very well let them string up our favorite apprentice."

"It's very kind of you all, Alice especially, to put this together, and pull this off," Billy repeated. "I know Bastian's grateful, as am I. And I wonder if this isn't part of the bigger effort to come for him of late… So, while I trust Mister Gates and the captain to keep the crews busy and focused elsewhere, they all know Bastian's here. We should probably move on, 'til things on the beach truly have calmed down for good." He reached out toward Bastian, intending to safely see him to some other, less well known hideaway.

"Hold on," reminded Alice, stepping between them. "We're happy to help our Bastian, to be sure. But that meant investing some time, and taking some risk. And I weren't lying about wanting some attention from our mutual friend here." She looked at Billy with a hungry grin. "The girls can see to Bastian's care. As for you who also wants him safe, I think it's time we made an honest man of our paying, but un-served caller." Her stare at the taller man made it clear that the previous arrangement between them, now insufficient, had changed. A service for a service.

Billy understood just before Bastian did, his mouth closing and his expression making his resignation clear as he looked over to Bastian.

"Alice?!" Bastian shouted, disappointed at the deal his sister was demanding, uniquely understanding Billy's disinterest in this revision, and more recently having a more direct interest in Billy's affairs. "Alice don't…"

Undeterred, the pragmatic prostitute held her hand out to the pirate.

"Billy, no!" Bastian stepped forward, unhappy it was not his transaction to approve or cancel.

But Billy merely patted his cheek, with a sad but sincere smile, "'Salright. It's worth the Price." Taking her hand, he let Alice pull him away toward the stairs, and didn't look back as they ascended.

As the other ladies pulled him toward a table for a drink and full recounting, Bastian shot an angry glare at Mrs Mapleton along the gallery. As she pursed her lips at the effective, if not fully appreciated rescue operation, he broke away and stormed to the kitchen, intending to make his departure. For whatever lingering risk there was on the streets, Gillespie was still obliviously asleep in a wagon, and remaining here… _during_ … was absolutely too painful.

* * *

 _tbc..._


	11. In the Ribs

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **11\. In the Ribs**

In the weeks that followed, few in Nassau had stopped thinking about the Christmas affair.

Of the two young men at its center, Billy was finally the first to act, even as Bastian's response was fast and fierce. In fact, Billy was only Billy was just able to catch the other twisting wrist before whispering, "Careful now! It's just me."

Bastian's shoulders relaxed slightly within the grip of Billy's other arm, as both looked down to see his blade stopped just short of the taller man's gut.

Releasing him entirely, Billy's expression suggested the near stabbing was slightly unexpected; no doubting the skill, just the intention toward this particular target. Despite the shadows of the alley he'd pulled Bastian into, he also noticed that Bastian's cheek was discolored, and the corner of his mouth was spotted with blood.

Bastian sheathed his dagger, accusing instead, "You're following me?"

"Irony," Billy noted irritably, reaching out to examine the bruise. "You've been avoiding me for more than a month, but looks like you've been caught twice tonight."

Batting the hand away, Bastian's own irritation grew at the suggestion he was at fault for any of it. "You've been at sea most of that month. I'm a busy man in me own right. And nights in Nassau ain't friendly for me, even without Randall getting beat again..."

Word had obviously spread quickly about the _Walrus_ quartermaster's even more severe injuries during their costly attack on a Portuguese merchant ship. Though the assailant was known and now dead, it seemed Randall's still unknown fate had revived animosity toward his last, and yet unpunished, accused attacker.

Billy sighed, having hoped until that moment that Flint and Gates had somehow settled that persecution permanently. "Seems there's a lot of unfinished business from Christmas."

Bastian glanced around nervously, trusting Billy hadn't sought him out over Randall, but anxious at their reunion in its own right. "Thanks for getting my cap back to me."

"Couldn't have you running about uncovered, even if I'd rather have returned it in person," Billy's genuine smile faded into concern as he broached their last lack of goodbye. "You took off that morning, knowing it weren't entirely safe out…"

"You mean I didn't hang about while Alice had her way with you?"

"That's not…"

"That's exactly!" Bastian barked, before remembering they were trying not to draw attention to their side street summit.

Billy was incensed in his turn at the abandonment and apparent lack of appreciation. "I shouldn't have to explain to you of all people how she had us over the rail. We owed her for getting you away from that mob—something I couldn't do, and I'm not sure even Flint himself could've pulled off in the end. And for all your sisters' affection, and whosever actual idea it was, we couldn't risk refusing her lest you get sent back to the slaughter…"

"What 'we'?" Bastian squinted and corrected. "It was _my_ neck what was threatened and spared that morning; _not_ yours. You had no part in it until she pulled you in; so it was _my_ debt to pay!"

"Bastian, I would…"

"And you _did_! No question; no hesitation; no waiting. She offered, and you accepted. Immediately! You… Barely a blink, and you were… with her!" He was nearly spitting with regret and rage.

"To protect you! For _you_!" Billy shouted, surprising both men with the interruption and its content, before again dropping his voice to affirm, "And while I'd never seek it, I'd do it again, right now. Without question or hesitation. I would do _anything_ to protect those I… I care about."

Bastian's entire body seemed to deflate, as he sighed at what would have been a world-changing confession under any other circumstances. And then he shook his head at the heart-breaking, deeper implication of Billy's admitted affection. "You bloody fool."

"Sorry? How is that a bad thing?"

"It means more than I have words for that you did, that you would. But you didn't have to; you _shouldn't_ have."

Billy's face showed he wasn't following the unexpected despondency.

"The girls saved me from your crew, and wouldn't have turned me back to them for anything. But Alice's had you in her sights for a while now, and used me to get you."

"You don't think she…?" Billy wondered aloud about the entire macabre morning.

"No… Probably not." Bastian's confidence dipped quickly, before he returned to what was certain. "But no matter, whether or not she made it, she made it _work_ for her. She took the opportunity to seal the deal with you—something she hadn't been able to do for months. And all because she knew you wouldn't risk me." His face contorted at the no-win situation, "You've just admitted it, she can use me to get you to do anything; anyone could, simply by putting a mark on me... Because you care, I'm more than bad luck, I'm an actual risk to you now."

"Bastian…" Billy implored with a shake of his head, not caring for where this logic was heading. He stepped forward, taking Bastian's face in his hands.

"Don't get me wrong," Bastian persisted, tracing his hands along the connection as far as he could, "You're a good man, William Manderly; you are. And Lord knows you've been good to me. But if I'm believed an ill omen to most in these waters, we now have proof that I am _surely_ a weakness for you, sure to drag you down with or because of me." He traced his hands back to rest atop Billy's. "Best I can do to repay you, to honor and protect you, is keep my distance. And you need to leave me be." His eyes were full, but no tear escaped as he kept his gaze steadfastly on Billy's troubled face.

Billy gaped at the dilemma they faced, and the conclusion Bastian seemed to have reached on their behalf. Had he gone too far by settling with Alice? Had his attempt to protect Bastian only served to push him away? And regardless, didn't Bastian have a point that a connection between them meant that either could be used against the other? Was the strictly business pretense he'd cleverly created somehow become both not enough for them, and still too much for Nassau?

He stroked the cheeks before him, desperate for some other, positive possibility. "Sebastian?" He leaned in for a kiss to pause the unraveling.

But Bastian pulled himself free of the disbelieving grip, and guided the trembling hands to rest at their owner's side. He leaned in quickly on his toes, and placed a quick peck on Billy's damp cheek. "Coin purse," he whispered, with a glance downward, before stepping away toward the street.

"Bastian?!" Billy protested hoarsely, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small anchor on its cord. "Bastian!"

At the alley's mouth, Bastian glanced back over his shoulder with a sad smile, and then hurled himself out onto the thoroughfare as if thrown there, landing at the feet of several startled passers-by.

Billy stepped after him, alarmed and arms outstretched to help.

But Bastian pulled himself up quickly from the apparent blow, wiped his face, and screamed for all to see and hear, "Well then, fuck you, Billy Bones! Fuck the whole lot of you, and your whoring mothers too!"

Breathing heavily in an attempt to control an entirely unrelated set of emotions, Billy knew he looked the role of agitated attacker given how the ample witnesses looked at him.

Playing up the implied row, Bastian glared at them at all, snatched up his cap, and hurried away with an exaggerated limp, mumbling curses under his breath and raining eyes.

The crowd looked back to the _Walrus_ sailor, seeing his hands still in fists and his countenance even more cross.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he shouted at them, half-rhetorically, if effectively hurrying them on their way. He ran his fingers over the evidence in his hand, grieving the 'ship that had apparently just run aground. _How had it come to this, indeed?_ And how could he mend it?

No answers handy, he was at least near the tavern…

* * *

Five long, morose weeks later, with most crews at sea, Nassau was taking advantage of the relative quiet to handle tasks and projects ahead of the busier spring and summer seasons. At the chandlery, the proprietor was taking an afternoon nap having busily rested all morning; and the young workhorse was grooming the old after the morning's single delivery.

"Mister Bastian?" an approaching voice called.

"A'right, Zeke," Bastian smiled at the younger boy carrying a large basket toward him. "What can I do for you?"

"I've something for you," he explained somewhat unnecessarily, as Bastian put down his brush.

"What is it?"

"I have a good idea; but it's supposed to be a surprise." He set the basket down between them, and tried to peer through the wicker.

"And who sent it?"

"Dunno. Mister Scott set me on the errand, but I gathered he was just passing it along himself." The lad seemed quickly uninterested in the parcel and its particulars, his attention instead turning longingly to the large warehouse beyond his recipient. "I'm just to drop it, and return with the basket."

Curious, but not exactly suspicious, Bastian knew well the younger boy's excitement over the trove of treasures nearby. "Well, it's not every day that you bring me anything, much less a surprise. I suppose that's worthy of some appreciation; don't you?"

The boy's face lit up.

"While I see to my surprise, why don't you go in and find _one_ , _small_ item for your trouble?" The courier didn't wait for a second offer or thought, leaving Bastian to shout after him, "Nothing with a blade, Zeke! And one thing only!"

Amused that anyone should find the piles of junk exciting, Bastian knelt beside the delivery, listening and sniffing for a hint of what it might be.

Puzzled, and ever cautious, he carefully unlatched and threw back the lid. When nothing popped out, he slowly peered in as a high-pitched yawn rippled out. There, uncurling on a thin pile of fabric was a single, mottled and sleepy puppy.

His breath caught on remembering a promised Christmas present, Bastian looked up and around for any audience, finding none.

The little dog stretched and shook itself awake, whimpering and growling together as it also looked up from its carrier toward the watcher above.

Bastian smiled at the puppy's clear indecision between defense and desire, when it both nipped at and nestled in his hands. Drawing it close, he let it have a good sniff of him as he got a good look at it–at him.

The little fellow made a brave stand, licking his face before rolling back and swiping at him with his large paws. That's when Bastian noticed that, tied loosely around his fluffy neck, was a familiar leather cord.

He settled the energetic and exploring pup in his lap, and untied the familiar anchor. Letting the new arrival chew harmlessly on one hand's fingers, he held up and couldn't help but smile at the more dangerous gift of the day.

Zeke came running out with a broken ship's glass, the treasure he'd quickly decided upon as today's payment. "Mister Bastian, I've chosen this, if it's alright. Promise I've taken nothing more…"

"That's wonderful, Zeke. Take the basket too, and my thanks."

"Have you named him?" the boy asked, out of briefly split attention at the growling ball of fur.

"I think I'll call him… 'Ribs.'"

"Funny name for a dog."

"It's perfect for him. On with you now."

Beaming at his good fortune, the youngster all but skipped away with his prize.

Slightly less expressive, Bastian wrestled with and relished his own bittersweet gift.

Nero couldn't have cared less about any of it. Gillespie snored and rolled over above them. And Bastian guessed that, somewhere out on the seas, if not scowling at some unfortunate prize, a certain sailor was smiling on imagining this bittersweet shore scene he'd arranged.


	12. A More Permanent Distance

**_Black Sails:_** **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **12\. A More Permanent Distance**

Caribbean winter faded to spring with a continued rise in temperatures and in tensions—none of which boded well for Bastian particularly.

The loudest news across the beach was when Eleanor Guthrie and Charles Vane had some kind of falling out, waking those nearby the night it happened, and rippling out through the town ever since. Almost immediately, his ship seemed to sail less frequently than before, and return more quickly and with less success. The compounding failures led to Vane's scarcely being seen, while his crew grew more visible and even more vicious as each day and prized passed. Many locals beyond Bastian learned to steer clear whenever possible, which only seemed to enrage the roving _Ranger_ s all the more, deepening the cycle.

Off shore, even the popular _Walrus_ ' run of wins began to dry up, despite good leads and regular sails. Flint's legendary confidence oddly seemed to grow despite the weak wins, further confounding his own men especially. Other crews picked up a little of the slack the two most feared hunters seemed to be missing, adding a little joy to some lesser ships—while also raising some fears that the luck would change again, or their success would invite jealous reprisals.

Collectively, the nearly unprecedented upending of the pirates' pecking order only further strained the social fabric of Nassau.

Especially given that dry tinder, Billy gave Bastian wide berth in town, striving to respect the younger man's concerns, even if both hated the distance. Their few unexpected encounters involved a stoic nod across the street, a brief smile to self, and perhaps a longing look as the other continued on. Bastian would not have been entirely surprised to know that Billy occasionally turned the 'scope toward the chandlery, to relish a glimpse of his anchor at work.

At that workshop, for all his continued physical growth, Ribs was proving more friendly than fierce—a temperament Bastian found as endearing as frustrating. "Large and sweet, I should have expected," he sighed to the puppy as it bounded up to a customer, rather than barking at the approach. _Quite the training gap to close, indeed._

* * *

"I know it's hard…," Gates shared casually and quietly as Billy loaded sacks of dried beans off the launch. Or, more accurately, had _stopped_ the loading to stare at the delivery cart on shore.

Billy reddened, realizing he'd paused mid-hand-off, and resumed his heaving without other acknowledgment or comment.

"I imagine he's not happy about it either," Gates continued, not being more detailed given the broader company.

Billy's expression continued to share his displeasure with the arrangement, whatever its mutual utility. "Let's just get this done so we can push off again."

To the other sailors, Bones simply shared their irritation with meager takings of late, letting him serve as a bellwether of their own morale. To their quartermaster, Billy's frustration was a bastion of an altogether different, deeper shortage.

The shouting quickly caught both their ears, and the attention of everyone around the busy jetty.

"I don't like it either, Mister Garvey. But the facts remain…"

"Shut your fucking face. Take the fucking order. And bring us our fucking supplies!"

Nearly the entire beach had turned to see the chandler's apprentice prematurely turn his back on the furious _Intrepid_ sailor.

The hirsute man grabbed the bridle of the greying horse, continuing to step after the stubbled youth.

"Hang on," Gates ordered, his hand on Billy's arm before the vigilante had even begun to move. "Good intention, to be sure…."

Billy gaped at his firm prohibition against the instinctive interference, turning quickly back to the scene everyone was watching.

In a move many among them had long feared, but never witnessed, the irritable old horse reared up within its cart harness.

The sudden burst of movement did not startle his more recently irritable handler. Dropping and whirling one leg out, Bastian caught the sailor leaning away from the angry hooves, easily toppling him. Atop him in a flash, the actual gleam was the knife held to the bearded throat.

"I will say this once more," Bastian shouted for all to hear, "No… more… credit… until you pay down some of what you already owe. Mister Gillespie is generous, but _not_ a charity. What Miss Guthrie would or wouldn't do is _her_ business, not ours. And touching me or my horse will in no way change the counts, except of your fingers, teeth or entrails. Are we now clear, Mister Garvey?"

The initial response must have been unsatisfying, as Bastian bounced roughly in place, emphasizing the question with his steel. The subsequent answer acceptable, Bastian stepped off and clear of the prone man, blade still glistening if not directly threatening. Not turning his back again, he waved the man on his way, glaring after him.

Performance over without a more satisfying bloodletting, the crowd quickly returned to their more mundane activities. Gates waved his crew to do the same, noting that Billy's protective attention had not shifted, likely waiting for Bastian to get entirely clear of all potential danger.

At the other end of that surveillance, Bastian turned and looked directly at him, making clear that he'd been fully aware of that particular audience the entire time. Appearing unhappy despite his quick victory, he sheathed his knife, wiped his hands, swept the nearest faces for further challenges, and turned back to lead away his equally dismissive steed.

Parting again without having actually met, each man tallied yet another unsatisfying, at-distance encounter: three in twice as many weeks. What pride each may have felt at Bastian's self-sufficiency was easily outweighed by sadness at its necessity. And neither could foresee an end to the needed separation; such was the sacrifice of their eternal Lent on New Providence Island.

* * *

The _Walrus_ had returned from its _Andromache_ chase short more than a few promised guns; her golden goal was already costly, if no less desirable.

With the crew preoccupied on hunt preparations, and Flint told off and on notice for damages beyond the vessel herself, Hal Gates had one more bit of business to handle before he could finally take a moment to properly drown the past days' events.

"Sebastian?" he tried to find the proper volume to announce himself as the young man loaded supplies onto the wagon outside the chandlery.

"Ah, Mister Gates! Been a while since you've come yourself…" Bastian's smile fell quickly on seeing the somber state of the esteemed Quartermaster and realizing how significant the needs, and therefore the damage, must be for the senior sailor to resume shopping himself. "What's happened?"

Gates fidgeted slightly, unable to keep up the forced smile, and turning the parchment over and over in his hands before handing it over. "Actually, the list isn't all that long, despite the battle. The other ship, she… she's in the worst shape by far. But we…, we…"

"Billy?" Bastian understood in horror, looking past the bald man to the ship at anchor, and to the jetty, and the camps, and the beach between. His eyes searched everywhere for some sign, as his mind reached for every other reason why Gates would come about Billy, rather with him.

"The prize's magazine went off; and the _Scarborough_ was upon us…" He caught himself, as the details were… questionable, and the result itself most important to this audience. Clearing his throat, Gates affirmed, "He was a good man..."

Bastian had stopped breathing, turning pale as sails, and gripped the wagon such that his knuckles went even whiter than his face.

Gates started toward him, but thought better than appearing patronizing, or risking breaking down himself. "Of course, there'll be a round for him, and the others, tonight. You're more than welcome-"

"You're kind to offer," Bastian interrupted hoarsely, too quickly, and with a forced, false smile of his own. "And to bring the news yourself. I do appreciate it, Mister Gates. But right now, I should get on this list. Give me a few hours?" Without waiting for a confirmation or further niceties, he turned and walked stiffly back into the shadows of the workshop.

The small dog who'd watched the exchange quietly from beside the wagon scurried after him, stopping once to look over his shoulder at the older man as if to wonder what he'd just done.

As if Gates didn't carry self-accusations enough.

* * *

As he headed toward the tavern that night, Gates' eye was drawn to the ragged church steeple, taller than anything else on the beach but no longer serving as the spiritual spine, the moral mast of the town. He wandered toward it, circling half-heartedly and not entirely sure why he did even that.

Coming around the back, with the noise of the main street and camps blocked by the structure itself, he found a quiet, neglected cut-through, dappled in moonlight. Such solitary silence was unknown aboard ship and rare anywhere in Nassau; and the stark absence struck him as clearly as the loss of the young man he'd considered as much son as crew.

Tempted to approach the church, if not enter, and offer a word for Billy, if not himself, Gates paused to swallow hard and take a breath. And that's when he noticed the slight movement in the shadows halfway along the building.

There in the seldom-navigated passage, Sebastian Price was slumped on his knees against the outer wall, one hand braced against the building, and the other cradling his face. Too afraid, or dubious, to enter the Lord's house, but clearly in need of whatever comfort sheer proximity might offer, the young man clutched at 'self and salvation, not quite silently sobbing at the apparent failure of both.

That scene—the sight and sound of such honest heartbreak—was heavy on Gates' mind when Dufresne approached him at the bar shortly thereafter. It was just one more piece of damning evidence to lay at the feet, and on the grave, of James Flint.


	13. Love, Lazarus

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **13\. Love, Lazarus**

Not satisfied with the cruelty the world directed at him, the young chandler's own heart continued to play tricks on him for the better part of a week.

"Bastian?"

His wood plane paused in its path along the beam; and he looked up briefly from his bench, unsure he'd actually heard anything at all in the empty space. The useless guard dog sleeping beside him hadn't stirred; so, certain he couldn't have again heard what he'd thought, a fresh wave of sadness passed over his face, and he returned to the budding ship's railing before him.

"Sebastian; it's me…"

He paused again, confused by and now irritated at the impossible sound. But sensing a shadow dance across the space behind him, he slowly glanced back over his shoulder. Turning quickly on seeing a large figure outlined by the bright daylight beyond, he squinted to make out more detail while reaching slowly for the knife at his waist.

Helpfully, the tall man stepped deeper into the pavilion and clear of the blinding contrast.

Bastian's mouth fell open and he blinked madly, his gaze dancing around the warehouse and down across his own body. "Have I died?" he tried to make sense of the sight before him. But the crowded space was no new heaven or hell; and he could neither find nor recall any injuries or ills that would have sent him either way.

"No," the gruff visitor smiled in amusement, moving closer in concern at the unintended, if entirely understandable, distress his unexpected arrival was causing.

The craftsman's tool plopped to the sand as his hand entirely failed to find the surface behind him, finally rousing the drowsy dog. Buoyed by the fervent wish apparently granted, Bastian stumbled forward a few eager steps, before his eyes narrowed and he halted. "How?" The struggle between desire to believe and doubt was clear across his entire form.

"It's a long story, but true. It's me, Bastian. It's really me," the vision assured, quickly limping the final distance between them, stopping just before the incredulous apprentice. He saw that Bastian looked tired, especially around the eyes, and perhaps a little thinner than a week before.

The gaunt Bastian continued looking him over, up and down, seeking some firm evidence toward fact or fancy.

The weathered man stood still, if anxiously, before him, allowing whatever time was needed for their reintroduction, however desperately he wanted to reach out and speed it along.

The puppy stretched and scratched, awake but uninterested.

Finally, haltingly, Bastian reached out and touched a loose, filthy sleeve. Confirming the realness of the rough texture, he looked up at the patient expression above him, and cautiously pressed his hand against the arm, the shoulder, and finally the sunburnt cheek. On firm contact and feeling heat, his eyes grew large as he finally relaxed enough to whisper, "Billy?"

"Yeah," the prodigal pirate confirmed with a wide, warm smile. "I'm here."

Bastian threw himself against the lanky vision, the shout of joy muffled by the encompassing arms, and interrupted by the flinch and groan Billy couldn't quite contain.

Bastian recoiled instantly, allowing Billy to pull in his elbows, suggesting an unhappy midsection.

"I'm a little sore," Billy explained hoarsely, without letting go entirely.

Concern instantly replacing all euphoria, Bastian focused on the sunburnt nose and chapped lips, "Has anyone seen to this?"

"I'm fine. I—"

"No; you're not," Bastian insisted, with ecstatic amusement at the downplayed damage. "Better than dead, to be sure; but… Can you climb?"

* * *

He'd spent much of the past week prone—beaten and staked to the beach by the English, and then hidden and shackled by some of his own crewmates for the past day. Billy was as sour, sunburnt, and sore as he'd ever been. This had made it slightly painful and challenging to scale the loft's rope ladder, pull up the bucket of fresh water, strip, and rinse himself off as best he could while Bastian vanished beyond the workshop for "some things." But the younger man's clear concern and quick leap to action had brightened his mind and heart at least, and left him little option but to comply regardless.

Having confirmed that Billy had at least been fed and watered since his rescue the day before, Bastian had immediately dispatched the resurrected patient to his shady loft, explaining he'd put no lemon in the bucket, so as not to irritate the rope and sun burns. "But it should get the worst of the sand, sweat and blood off."(1) Apologizing he had no basin, he'd given directions to stackable boxes and some soft cloths, and then provided some privacy along with the promise to return swiftly.

Rounding the screen nearly breathless from an all-out run out and back, Bastian stopped short on finding the still damp and bare pirate inspecting a small pile of old clothes he'd apparently noticed across the room. The taller man held them up to his host, silently curious at how they came to be here.

Bastian bowed his head in slight embarrassment, as he set down his acquisitions. "Mister Gates was kind enough to gift me a few things when they cleared your tent. No one else near tall enough for most of it, so… Beyond the shirts and trousers, I've a pair of old boots, and your old bracers," he pointed.

"You kept all this? Wanted it?"

"Shame for it to go to waste; and I might yet grow into it…," Bastian hemmed with a nervous smile, before an honest sadness preceded a burst of energy. "And… It's all I had left. Save your savings, which I've not touched!"

"I'm flattered, and glad now that you cared to. If I might…?"

"Of course. But let's get you patched up first." He waved Billy back to the makeshift chair, as he retrieved a small jar, unscrewed the lid, and took a long sniff of the contents. Satisfied, he held it out to Billy, keeping his eyes turned away in continued modesty.

When it wasn't taken immediately, he glanced back to find blue eyes looking at him curiously through exhaustion and injury, if less grime. So, he explained, "It's just coconut oil, with some mint."

"Don't need no perfumes…"

"Didn't say you did. It's salve."

Still not taking the outstretched offer, Billy now looked a little ashamed, as he slowly admitted with a rub of his shoulder and a grimace, "I—The climb and bath was about all the stretchin'-" The plaintive look made it clear that big Billy Bones was admitting a vulnerability; without actually speaking the words, he was asking for help; he was trusting.

Bastian nodded humbly, clear on the confidence he'd apparently earned. Stepping closer, any other reaction was stifled by being faced with the old scars, newer wounds, and sharp red lines dotting the lean form before him.

Even seated, Billy remained almost as tall as the standing chandler; and so Bastian could easily see, reach, and hope to soothe the red ears, nose, lips, chin, and cheeks. He dipped three fingers into the ointment, and carefully spread it across Billy's baked forehead.

"Sssss," Billy hissed instantly, causing Bastian to pull back in fear. "It's alright. Just cool, and tingles a bit."

"Sorry. I think that means it's working…" _I hope!_ He continued, slowly applying the intended cure, gently tracing it over the worst of the burns, and rubbing it in more firmly to areas 'just' a deep pink.

Billy sighed, finally relaxing a bit as the attention and tonic did ease some physical traces of his days' ordeal.

Pleased for the positive reaction, and careful to be both thorough and gentle, Bastian continued applying the cool lotion down Billy's neck, shoulders and chaffed chest. He saw the irritated skin across Billy's back, but didn't see the starkly blue-green bruises along the ribs until Billy flinched as he reached around slightly. Recoiling instantly, he then placed a hand remorsefully on a safer shoulder, and asked aloud without thinking, "Who…?"

"His Majesty's Navy." _Once again._ Billy whispered further, "Staked me to the beach, just above the tide line, and dressed me in a leather shirt. The sun… It shrank…"

With extra care not to interrupt the telling or to revisit the harms, Bastian carefully finished Billy's ribs and upper arms, and then continued down the lower back and outer legs, to his raw feet. With each small outbreath earned, Bastian repeated the application. With each slight wince, he clenched his own jaw, focusing on the care, not the cause. With each touch he hated the English more and more, while cautious not to let that fierce feeling pass through to his fingers.

"He asked me fewer questions than I expected he would, the _Scarborough_ captain," Billy continued. "But I said nothing. I wouldn't. Then, couldn't. First from strength, and then …"

Kneeling before him, Bastian took a deep breath of his own as he reached for the raw ankles and warned, "This may sting."

Billy flinched slightly as Bastian daubed at the worse of the two, but kept his hands resting on his knees as he pressed on with his telling. "Still, I didn't break. He couldn't make me..."

Listening silently, Bastian saw to both feet, shins and calves.

"But, I got away. I got away and came back…"

Bastian took the clenched fist that Billy's right hand had become. "You did," he confirmed softly, gently applying the oil and uncurling the tangible tension.

The heat on Billy's skin slowly waned with every application of fragrant balm over each finger, rough palm, back of hand, wrist and forearm. His eyes closed; and his opposite hand slowly flexed as its counterpart was worked, trying to expel relieved strain, or perhaps simply to help the healing touch penetrate deeper into all the aching joints, muscle and bone.

Soothing as far up the far arm as he could reach, Bastian then turned his attention to the active, nearer one. Noting the right did not take up the anxious motion, he gently painted the back of the left hand and arm, earning another small sigh from its owner. Turning it to tend the palm and inner arm, he was struck immobile on seeing the fresh scab circling this wrist, as it lined up with the scar on his own.

Taking a sharp breath on recognizing the twin wounds, he mourned the pain Billy must have suffered, fumed anew at the English for inflicting it, and swallowed, realizing what deeper connection he and Billy shared in this overboard and underheel experience. He ran his thumb softly over the fresh flesh line.

Billy realized instantly that the touch at his wrist was different, more… tender. As gentle as Bastian had been everywhere else, that contact had been care; this was caress. Bastian's sheer presence, beyond the soothing pressure, had surely tamed the tempest at play in Billy. Each deft dab had wiped away a worry, had calmed a rage, had recalled him to the now and beyond. And in this moment, he came to realize that Bastian had fallen still.

He opened his eyes and looked down to see Bastian holding their upturned wrists alongside one another, as if comparing bracelets. Only, rather than ogling matching accessories, the younger man was shuddering.

"Bastian?" he asked quietly, to no effect. "Bastian?" He reached across his lap and under the curtain of brown waves, to palm a wet cheek hidden beneath it, and to turn the furrowed face up toward him.

Bastian's eyes were full, and he struggled to rasp through stuttered breaths, "I _am_ bad luck. If only I hadn't-" He stood to distance himself and his gift for harm.

"No!" Billy cut him off sharply, unwilling for pain to interrupt their reunion, certainly not an inaccurate and unnecessary self-reproach by his healer. He pulled Bastian closer, even as the unsailor continued to try pulling away. "Look at me; listen… You had _no_ part in what happened to me, except to help me get through it. Tied to that beach, two things kept me sane and strong… The vow to make sure England didn't win against my brothers, and an oath to return and make right with you."

Bastian stopped struggling immediately.

With a relieved smile, Billy slowly pulled him down onto his lap, to reinforce the connection and make eye contact easier. Putting one arm around Bastian's waist, he explained further. "For five days on that beach, I fumed over how that captain represented everything I despise about England, everything I oppose, all the worst of what they'd do here. With every bit of heat that beat down on me, I vowed to stop him hurting anyone else here…" Billy's gaze had turned out to the town and sea.

"Whatever else, Flint's right about England sitting off our coast, waiting to sweep in and impose itself again. Nassau's not a perfect place; God knows the stupid, petty and cruel things people here'll do..." He looked down to and ran his thumb over Bastian's hometown-made scar, a reminder to both that they were not entirely free alone or together. "But under the black, we have freedoms and opportunities the Jack will never allow, so long as we keep the wigs and redcoats unwelcome..."

After a moment's silence, Bastian shifted into his line of sight wearing a look of concern.

Billy's face refocused and softened into an expression somewhere between embarrassment and ebullience. "And, as I lay there with my eyes closed against the sun, I… I also imagined that I was lying next you in the banyan, that—until it grew most… uncomfortable—the pressure was just you laying there, against me, on me." He grinned bashfully at the admission, his whole upper body flushing red where his face couldn't.

He leaned in to Bastian's breathless disbelief. "Beyond my anger at Hume and His Majesty, I also promised myself that—if I somehow got back here alive—that I wouldn't let my fears hold my tongue any longer. That you would know how important you've become to me." He looked up into the brown eyes and wavy hair. "You were brave and honest at Christmas, as you've always been. You were my hope through Harbour Island. And you deserve better than anyone could offer. But I would like to try, Sebastian Price, if you'll let me. I love y-"

He hadn't finished the thought before Bastian had repeated his Christmas advance, with an encouraged, if extra careful, and passionate kiss.

Initially reciprocating, Billy promptly pushed Bastian away slightly. "Wait."

Bastian's confusion was evident across his face and form. "Did I hurt-?"

"No; it's not that," Billy swallowed. "And God knows I want this, want you. Please know that…"

"But?"

"But before encouraging you…"

"More than you've just done?" Bastian irked.

"…further…," Billy nodded, "I need you to know, to understand something."

Bastian sat back a little further.

"I want you to make your decisions about me, about us, understanding that, while I _am_ committed to you… I'm _already_ committed to my crew. I made that oath first…"

Bastian sighed.

Taking that as a poor sign, Billy rushed to explain, "You know how it is here: A man's not got much beyond his name, which is only as good as his reputation, his word. The day I was snatched, I'd promised my mum I'd be home for supper. For a host of reasons you know, I haven't kept that promise. And I can't imagine what that night, those first few days, these years since, have been like for her, my dad and brother."

"None of that's your—" Bastian tried to remind him, stopped by a gentle thumb over his lips.

"My point, is that I aim to keep my promises, especially to those I care about. Those who love me, and… who I love." He traced his thumb across Bastian's cheek, and smiled sadly. "I gave my word to my brothers in sails, more than three years ago; before I knew you... So, my obligation there comes first. And I won't hold you to, or have you waiting on, seconds…"

Bastian smiled and brought his forehead carefully to rest against Billy's. "That I fell for a fellow, never mind a pirate, shows I ain't in this for ease. I know the account well enough, and you, too: Your crew came first, comes first. I'd guess we've both had much worse deals. And _that_ your word matters so much, that your men do –it's just another quality to adore..."

Billy tried to find the word to express his own adoration. "You are..."

"Growing impatient…"

The arms wrapped around his neck suggested the time for talk was over. At least until the crew meeting that evening.

* * *

 **NOTES**

1\. As evidenced by their frequency in modern scented soaps and detergents, citrus acids can break up oils; and the fruits were thus a cheap, easy, and Caribbean-ready cleaner.


	14. Fires on All Fronts

**_Black Sails:_** **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **14\. Fires on All Fronts**

Despite the heat of the day and their exertion, the couple lay close together—each relishing the contact more than a year in the make, and both keenly aware of the near permanence of the past week's separation.

"What?" Billy whispered at the change in Bastian's encompassing gaze.

Bastian almost smiled at the notice, the hand that had been lightly tracing a long circuit along Billy's arms and chest coming to rest on his chin. "You."

"Me?" Billy mused, gathering a larger handful of Bastian's hair and giving it a playful shake.

"Returned, today... you're… different. Not bad, certainly not. Just… more serious; troubled." _Especially given our reunion_ , he didn't say.

"I'm sorry," Billy pulled the observer in for a closer view, replete with reassuring kisses. "I should be focusing on the bright star in my sky."

"It is really that bad?"

Billy sighed, his eyes not smiling. "Vane over Guthrie; Flint against Vane; and now Hornigold versus Flint. A long time coming, but to such a head within a week… Let's just say that I am quite relieved you had the good sense to watch today's attack on the fort from this distance and vantage."

"The same week you were staked to a beach by the navy…"

"And you thought me dead. I _am_ sorry." For that commission, Billy looked at close to tears as Bastian had ever seen or heard. "I almost let my best prize ever get away."

Bastian squeezed as firmly as he safely could against the lingering mementos of that imprisonment.

"Everything's different," Billy sighed with another grateful kiss, sitting up as if to emphasize or at least embody the point. "Gates dead. Crews splintered. England encamped on our doorstep… And I don't think it's going to get better any time soon."

Bastian sat up close behind him, chin on one shoulder and arm slung carefully over the other, deducing, "I don't like these games. They never end well for people like me; not for me. Or us."

Billy reached up to the dangling hand, intertwining their fingers. "This is bigger than command of any fort, or tavern, or crew. It's not just a superstition or grudge anymore; it's war."

"And _you_ have to be in the middle of it?" _Just when we have so many other possibilities…_

Billy reached back and pulled Bastian around, close in front of him, all the day's events making him infinitely more mindful of what was at stake. "Not just for my brothers; but for you, and me too. It's that big, that important, for people like us, for us."

They looked out across the watery and sandy chessboard, where only wisps of smoke above the town, and the large Spanish warship offshore suggested the new state of things.

Bastian tilted his head back for some direct eye contact. "I'll trust you on all that. After all, you've come back, from the dead, to warn and warm me. And you've given me a friendly, if not exactly fierce, dog…."

They both chuckled at the well-intended present, currently distracted with a good-sized ball of jerky on the workshop floor below. Bastian had had the good sense to collect that gift on his earlier run, courtesy a connection to the butcher.

"So, I don't want you fighting this alone," Bastian continued. "I'll help."

Billy tensed at the suggestion. Jolly's jovial successor was also a reminder that there were those, likely still in Nassau, who didn't hold Bastian in high esteem. Who not only might _not_ want the West bastard's assistance, or welcome his enmity, but might actually use the larger chaos to finish what they'd started nearly a year before, regardless of Bastian's current involvement.

Nonetheless, Billy felt today, now, here was not the time to have that argument with the capable, if precious apprentice. So, he wrapped his arms and legs entirely around his confirmed victory, nestling his head on the tan shoulder. "Tonight's meeting will determine a lot of what that fight looks like. Let's see what comes of it, how best it can serve our needs, and who can help best. Beyond careful, I've— _we've_ gotta be smart."

"And your backing Flint is the smart choice, not just an allegiance over his attempt to save me at Christmas?"

"I am very grateful for that _intention_ ; but he's more than shown his true colors as well." Billy didn't bother listing those offenses: shortchanging the crew in search for _Urca_ information, killing Gates, his role in Billy's own literal fall. "But what matters most right now is he's our best chance against what's coming. 'Bout time he's useful to us for a change."

That shift in perspective and function sat between them for a moment, further evidence of the new, reborn Billy. And to that business, Billy sighed, "I should be off."

Bastian turned in his embrace with clear disappointment at the quick departure.

Billy remained focused, "I don't know how this evening will go; but chances are good that many, if not everyone, will come out _very_ unhappy. So, promise me you'll stay away. And at the first sign of bigger trouble, you'll take Ribs to the treehouse, and wait 'til I can come for you."

"But—"

Billy cut off the argument with a kiss, finally pulling away just far enough to run his fingers over the anchor hanging against Bastian's chest, and to whisper, "Please? I've only just got you…"

Bastian searched his face, nodding finally, before running his own fingers across the same, blank space on Billy's chest. He looked down, then up again, with a devilish grin. "Keen as you are to get on your way, it would seem you're entirely bare, Mister Bones… Perhaps we should do something about that?"

Billy looked mildly dubious, but gave no resistance as Bastian pushed him back for a further, fashion unrelated delay.

* * *

Word spread quickly through town that night that the tense meeting had not gone as anyone expected—men and crews divided, to be sure; but also disappointingly alike in their lack of _Urca_ gold, now reported recovered by Spain. Corners slunk back to, faults assigned, and wounds being licked, Flint and his loyalists retired to their crew house, now needing to prepare for the default option of a Charles Town voyage, presuming Eleanor Guthrie was able to secure the needed guest.

When the captain sent word from the tavern that they would be setting sail immediately, several senior sailors understood that she had been, but likely without Vane's full cooperation. For their own concerns of any Vane reaction, beyond their captain's own instructions, the senior sailors set themselves and the men to even more urgent preparations: DeGroot to the ship itself, Billy to secure final supplies, and Silver off to gather the final, loyal hands.

Checking off the list the Ship's Master had left him, Billy sent the last men and items to the jetty as he glanced about the shack a final time before locking up. Alone, weary and eager to be on his way, he just heard the in-breath behind him when the heavy blow struck him square in the back. He stumbled forward into the dark, managing to catch himself before smashing into the table's edge. His hand wrapped around a heavy something, as he turned to face the attacker.

The oil lantern on the porch backlit a large figure in the doorway—not as tall as Billy, but twice as wide, and thrice as angry.

"Riza." Billy recognized the thick, bearded sailor, from his few months' service on the _Walrus_ , and more recently the beating he'd just given him on the bluffs.(1) Apparently, at least one of Dufresne's conspirators felt they hadn't fully completed their business with him.

"Not so tough without a dozen friends to back you, eh?" the angry man growled.

"Not so smart as to learn the lesson the first time," Billy retorted, hurling the perhaps pulley at the clearly lit target.

Riza dodged it easily, stepping quickly into the room and to the side, clearly encouraging Billy to make a run past him for the now unblocked door.

No slow learner himself, Billy didn't fall for the obvious trap, and instead shifted himself out of the patch of light, to the opposite side of the small space. Confident he knew the layout better, especially in the darkness, Billy tried to picture where they each were, and what surrounded them before his attacker had time to adjust to the pitch black. Riza stood before a wall of rope and net—nothing immediately dangerous; unless Billy could get him tangled and strangled in it. However, even if Riza had come alone, and there weren't more hands lying in wait just outside, he surely hadn't come unarmed. So, to charge across at him risked running headlong onto a blade or into a muzzle.

On his shadowed side, Billy had more, smaller and harder objects—a few bottles, stakes and metal bobs. They could be useful if he could launch enough of them, accurately enough. If… His chances would be better if he knew exactly where Riza stood, or better yet, if he could draw Riza into the weak light.

Turning his ear and peripheral vision toward possible, telling movement or sound, he taunted, "Tell me, Riza, is your fight really with me over a few blows, or with Flint himself for dreaming bigger than you, or perhaps Mister Dufresne for naming you, or yourself for being suckered in. That's a lot of targets. Am I the first to face your anger tonight, or the last?"

A deep chuckle wasn't enough to give away its source.

 _Not quite the talker after all,_ Billy regretted. _Perhaps some physical bait then._ He tossed two wood blocks toward the door—one at ground level, one, higher up.

Reacting to the sheer, seemingly large movement, Riza stepped toward the door, firing his pistol at nothing.

Billy was on him in an instant, leveraging the squatter man's movement to push him forward and down, staying clear of his whatever else he might have in his hands, and trying to get behind and above him.

Surprised, but not shrinking, Riza fought back—swinging the spent gun and a knife around his sides as he fell, blindly hoping to connect. He continued his fall into a roll, not wishing to be trapped face down, even if meant exposing his front.

Grabbing his wrists as they both grunted and shouted, Billy smashed his hands on the floor, knocking both weapons free.

Though likely not as strong outright, Riza used his weight advantage to buck and shift, toppling the higher Billy as their struggle became an outright hand-to-hand tumble.

Longer-armed, Billy tried to get his hands under the grizzled beard, as Riza pummeled his arms and sides furiously.

Hitting a tender, bruised rib by sheer accident, Riza grinned as Billy flinched and paused ever so slightly. Pulling another blade from somewhere, the shorter rolled atop the taller man, pinning him in place, kept from plunging the steel in only by Billy's greater reach. "I hate all of you," Riza admitted through gritted teeth, and applied more of his mass behind the dangling blade.

Locked in place by the desperate stalemate, Billy shook and spat, anything to break the slow, downward progress; but the avenger would not be moved. It seemed the result was gradual, but guaranteed.

Glancing around for something—anything to change the slight mismatch against the gleeful Riza, Billy happened to be looking to the side when the explosion above them occurred. He heard the shattering, and saw the flash and then the initial shower of flames around his attacker. But even more in shadow now below the big man, he couldn't see the contorted face as Riza shrieked and recoiled, the blade dropping away, while small sparks scattered around, rolling onto Billy and the floor. Flames spread quickly around the almost victor's ears and equator, and his agonized movement seemed only to engulf him further, as Billy pushed himself back and away.

Shocked, afraid, angry and in agony, Riza staggered back into the doorframe, his spray of embers not at all diminishing his own increasing inferno. Flailing, wailing and flaming, he staggered out into the night, stumbling in the direction of the surf.

Thankfully, his retreat was swift enough not to catch the shack or anything in it alight. Having confirmed that lack of lingering danger in the darkness, Billy risked laying back to quickly catch his breath.

The whisper just preceded the creak and shadow at the now lantern-less door, "Billy?"

He pulled himself up on one elbow, feeling around for the abandoned knife with the other hand.

"Billy?" the voice repeated with an urgency, and now a familiarity piercing through the fading battle fever. However, the recognition only served to again raise Billy's ire as the voice's form dropped in place beside him. "Are you hurt?"

"I told you…"

"You're welcome," Bastian interrupted, wrapping one hand around his neck, and pulling him in for a relieved kiss. "Are you hurt?"

Initial irritation diffused, Billy let Bastian help him stand to take stock. "I don't think so."

Bastian circled him, running his hands briskly over skin and cloth, checking for what the dim light might not show.

"You can't stay. That'll have drawn every eye on the beach." He caught Bastian by the arms, halting him and pulling their faces close, "What are you doing here?"

"I had business in town." Namely to find out why no one had informed him that Billy had washed up, and to ensure such information gaps didn't recur; but he said merely, "Such as that the _Walrus_ was suddenly rushing to get underway…"

"I would have swung by…," Billy assured, running his hand through the intercessor's wild hair.

"Glad to save you the trouble," Bastian grinned, wrapping his arms gently around Billy's midsection.

"And to save me?"

"I hold significant interests in your continued well-being, Mister Bones."

"Billy?" a shout came from not far away. The beach had clearly taken notice.

"Best served by scarcity for the time being," Billy reminded, regretfully.

"See you in a fortnight,"(2) Bastian demanded, stealing another kiss before slipping out ahead of the arriving crowd.

 _Every night_ , Billy corrected silently as his crewmates rushed in.

* * *

 **NOTES**

1\. The "Big Conspirator" who rushed Billy was not named in the show; but was played by Riaz Solker. Sure Billy would know his shipmate, I tweaked the actor's name.

2\. For those interested, I draw all my rough sail times from calculator at ports dot com /sea-route, using ~5 knots per oldsaltblog dot com /2012/09/are-modern-ships-slower-than-sailing-ships-probably-not/


	15. Necessary

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **15: Necessary**

"Miss Guthrie?

"Bastian, come in…" Eleanor's gloom seemed to lift slightly, as she looked up at the familiar voice, and waved him toward the chair across from her. "And please, call me 'Eleanor.'"

"Thank you, …Eleanor," he smiled nervously, remaining standing, "But you've a long line of well-wishers; I wouldn't want to keep you."

" _Please_ do," she asked genuinely, even eagerly, sitting forward. "I could do with a little break from the scripted pleasantries."

He nodded knowingly, and took the seat. "I _am_ sorry. I know you and your father didn't see eye-to-eye on much, but…"

"Thank you. You know better than most, how little fathering there actually was." She slumped back in her chair, shifting uncomfortably in the obligatory black dress.

Bastian glanced around the island's de facto throne room, at the pile of condolence gifts, and the referenced queue of grievers. "If I may, I think you've learnt quite a good deal, whether or not it's what he meant."

She smiled at the honest suggestion of her success despite the deceased. "Things were certainly simpler before all this. Just you, me, and Madi, running about the beach or warehouse, playing at merchant, and sailor, and privateer…"

"Learning to be survivors, all. Well, almost, all," he recalled the lingering and the missing.

"Skill or luck, or lack thereof, look at where we find ourselves today," she chuckled morosely, standing and pouring them each a cup of wine.

"Though the beach is abuzz, I won't pretend to understand it all," he nodded thanks and sipped. "Do _you_ think we're on the edge, or already over some line? With England? With Captain Vane?"

"I don't give a fuck what they all think," she answered soberly between gulps. "I've grown tired of having all my hard work swept aside each change of tide or tirade of wounded pride. Surely you can appreciate that, seeing what you have your whole life here, suffering Nassau's abuse or Gillespie's neglect? No, I've decided to draw my own lines, and cast my own alliances. With a little effort now, I plan on smoother sailing for us all…"

When he didn't respond, she looked up to his slight, questioning shake of head.

"I intend to bury more than my father tonight, Bastian. The days of piracy are over for New Providence. We are turning away from the uncertainties and barbarities of privateering, avoiding an unnecessary confrontation with Spain over pilfered gold, and providing England reason to do nothing but confidently buy and sell with us. The sun will rise tomorrow on, and Flint will return to, a _new_ , a nobler Nassau."

"And, Captain Vane…?" the merchant's apprentice reminded.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, exhaustion with the status quo clear. "Charles can't see beyond his own, short-sighted desires. So he's gone after the ship he feels he's owed in exchange for Miss Ashe."

"What?" Bastian sat forward in alarm.

"Given the chance to be reasonable, he's instead made clear his intention to continue the old ways he's helped make clear cannot go on. He's set himself against the legitimate, lawful future we are building here."

"But if he seizes that ship, or even tries to…" Bastian's worry wasn't at all for the diplomatic or economic implications.

Her cool response was not dismissive, simply confident. "Knowing ours is the best, the only tenable path ahead, we must trust that Captain Flint will once again rise to the occasion. Besides, with Governor Ashe aligned, Charles will not be facing one man or ship, but the whole of English-"

"Eleanor, you know Vane better than anyone," Bastian interrupted, not the least bit reassured. "Do you really think he won't fight to the bitter end, or burn it all in spite, just to prevent others from winning?" _That he won't kill a certain sailor standing between him and Flint?_

But the young man's years of inviting underestimation, reinforced even within the last minutes, had been too effective. Eleanor did not see the depth of his concerns; she was too convinced of her own decision, too invested in defeating Vane in that process. "I am not under any delusion that it will be easy, quick or without cost. But so much blood has been spilled on these sands, that a little more is worth putting an end to it, once and for all."

Though they had not been close in years, Bastian knew her and her reputation well enough not to bother with further challenge to her conclusion. She was not unlike either Vane or Flint in that regard, and sat here now as sole heir to Nassau's throne due at least in part to that persistence. And if she and Flint, if two of New Providence's powers were truly aligned in this design, it was as good as done. It was also the side to which Billy had thrown his support—a more immediate reason for Bastian's loyalty, whatever his admitted ignorance, significant doubts, and increasing fears. And none of that would be resolved here today anyway, not with a resolute and aggrieved Eleanor.

Eme knocked at the door with a curious, "Mam?"

They had talked too long; the crowd outside was unmoving, and growing restless.

Bastian nodded and stood, taking the unnamed cue. "I _am_ sorry," he repeated dutifully, worried it was a condolence for more than a single man already exempted from the coming fight. From his bag, he pulled a small parcel, and laid it on the desk between, before shuffling out silently.

As she nodded Eme to see in the next visitor, Eleanor unwrapped the canvas to reveal a simple ship's model. Turning its vaguely familiar design in her hand, she sighed at finding the name painted on its aft: _Invention_. It was the ship on which she and her family had arrived here so many years ago. _Necessity was its mother_ , the saying went. And Nassau needed a change, a re-invention she aimed to midwife if not mother.

* * *

While he appreciated the desire to deliver the Ashe girl out of harm's way, and more importantly to use that gesture for advantage in the struggle with England, it was clear that things had not gone to plan. As if they ever did.

For, less than a week after the aborted Hornigold coup and the young lady's midnight rescue, Billy sat chained in the captain's cabin of the Spanish man-of-war, worrying about his brothers held on the deck well, and waiting for Vane to follow through with whatever design had held him separate from the other men. Well-tied for now, and ready to act should he gain the opportunity, he could only spend the mean time cataloging his woes, and stoking his anger for when he would act upon it:

Any loss amongst the crew was hard, but Irving had died from an accident when the footing line snapped. No story or glory in that telling, especially when the rest of the riggers had been too superstitious to even join Billy in the repairs. Bastian would have respected his loyalties too much to point out that the men might have been safer there when Vane's horde swarmed board. He would also likely appreciate that Billy might well be alive _because_ the job aloft had taken so long alone. But Billy's focus remained on the fact that he hadn't done more, that his brothers had borne the brunt of the ambush.

Somewhere in the nearby Charles Town, Flint and the re-allied Barlow woman were hopefully deep in negotiations with the Governor, sailing the goodwill of his daughter's safe return to Nassau's benefit. That their own return ride was now in enemy hands jeopardized that larger plan considerably, even if Vane didn't immediately use the many, large guns now at his disposal. While the usurper didn't seem to have enough men to easily sail away with the large ship, he didn't need all of Billy's men either, and could wreck some havoc ashore even so. It was all a question of how short-sighted and selfish his savagery would be.

Beyond the physical and political realms, the current state and poor potential of the situation certainly complicated Billy's recently initiated personal life. He chuckled on recalling how their valuable, gowned guest had been making eyes at him the entire voyage up the Atlantic; flattering to be sure, but awkward as well, especially as no small number of the men had noticed, and ribbed him fiercely for it. Not that he could tell her or any of them so or why, but they could have her; his berth was soundly spoken for.

Indeed, with that new, now consecrated relationship, Billy faced another fresh concern—that he wouldn't see Bastian again. That he'd selfishly sought and secured that comfort, only to set the younger man to grieve again so soon. That beyond those on this ship, a fuck up here could bring the English down all the faster and harder on Nassau, and thus his favorite inhabitant there. That he warned Bastian away too weakly, and held him too briefly.

Fortunately, nearly all his worries had the same resolution: stop Vane. Simple enough.

It was also ludicrous. Vane rarely listened to anyone, and usually _after_ he'd acted anyway. He didn't need Vane's regrets; only his removal or redirection would do.

So, Billy imagined Bastian saying it— _Stop Vane_ —to emphasize its necessity, and to amplify its possibility. Over and over, the dark eyes and mop of hair asked him: _Stop Vane. For us. For me…_

His smile at the encouragement had faded by the time his task's target finally entered, but his certainty had only increased.

Yet, rather than beating him immediately, Vane began instead with flattery wrapped in an unexpected revelation: taking responsibility for trying to split Flint's crew, using Singleton to do so, etc—but only to recruit the best men, Billy being the best.

That meant Vane could likely have been behind the Christmas attack on Randall, framing Bastian, and perhaps even the birthday assault on Bastian himself. So, "Fuck you." Billy gave up any intent of doing more than splitting the smug man's skull.

But no, he realized as Vane continued, before any justice he sought for Bastian or Randall, he had to think beyond this moment. Bastian needed to be alive and free for justice to mean anything, which meant Nassau had to be standing and free, which meant Billy needed to choose the war over Bastian, for Bastian. Needed to stop Vane.

Or better yet, he understood in recognizing their common loathing for Flint, he needed to bring Vane over from his narrow debt or petty theft to the larger, common effort. He needed Vane to set aside his personal quarrel, and to think of the greater brotherhood. To protect his heart, he had to join this heathen. To stop Vane, he actually needed to convince, to seduce him to the cause.

And his attempt to do so literally rocked their floating world.

* * *

Beyond his master's incessant prattle, Bastian was aware that Nassau was growing increasingly as stormy as the seas he'd stuck to shore in order to avoid. Just since Billy and his brothers had left for the Carolina colony, Bastian and his loose network of even younger observers had noted a growing litany of waterfront chaos:

The un-neighborly Mapleton nonetheless visiting Eleanor after the disappearance of one of Max's girls. Vane's departure and his deadly departing gift to Eleanor. Eleanor sharing that Vane was aiming for the very ship Billy was again boatswain on. The new crew of the _Colonial Dawn_ rapidly stripping her nearly bare so that Featherstone could "refigure how she's carrying her weight." Eleanor vanishing after her father's funeral, only for Max to begin buying up the town as word of her arrest by England sowed fear and lowered prices.

And now Gillespie paced about the shop, covering his obvious fears with an unnecessary lecture on how wise he'd been to refuse "the whore's insultingly inadequate price."

Thankfully, through the window behind the pompous ass, Bastian could see Zeke running up the beach toward them, hands flailing above him as his shouts caught up. Long since done with the useless shipwright, Bastian dashed out the door to greet the more interesting interaction, and caught the runner, unable to stop quickly and nearly breathless for his exertion. "Zeke?"

Deep breaths keeping him from speaking, the boy turned in his arms, gesturing wildly to the water.

As Gillespie exited complaining about Bastian's ungrateful rudeness, the indifferent apprentice looked across the harbor's horizon, his eye caught instantly by what had to be Zeke's intended information delivery: floating low on the water was the returned _Colonial Dawn_. And beyond her, the resurrected _Walrus_.


	16. Lest You Be Consumed

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **16: Lest You Be Consumed**

For all the turmoil that led to them, the few months after the decimation of Charles Town were heady days under the black. New ships and crews entered the arena and visited New Providence Island, emboldened by the growing list of Flint's raids across the Caribbean and south Atlantic. While more competition on the account, that pressure expanded the hunting grounds, placing an even larger area of the Atlantic and Caribbean on the privateers' purview. The _Urca_ gold's move from well-known secret to poorly-secured harbor fort had drawn even more new mouths and hands, while also upending the labor market in the area, as virtually any offered wage was deemed unnecessarily stingy. On the street, Max's expanded enterprises blossomed with the Guthrie shadow all but removed, or at least mocked in song, toast, and drama. Gillespie was even more unbearable than before, now that his dithering over selling to Max had left him—and his even busier apprentice—one of the few operations left to partner with, rather than be employed directly, by Nassau's Madam.

While Bastian was no more popular on the shore or sea, the influx of newcomers didn't harbor old suspicions, at least at first. And the old-timers were distracted by other potentials; and their confidence and complacency manifested as sparing him very little attention at all, which suited him fine. In fact, the only attention he gave any thought to was the dashing _Walrus_ boatswain, who spared him every possible moment between raids, and preparations for raids. Finding it easier to get lost, or at least overlooked, in Nassau's bustling pirate renaissance, they shared suppers in the loft overlooking the harbor, nights adding to the summer heat, and bittersweet sunrises at the tree house before going about their working days.

One hot afternoon, they managed to steal away for a few hours' swimming and… more, just out of sight of the town and banyan castle. Having climbed faster up the steep cliff above the deep diving hole, Billy squatted beside their piled clothes, and rummaged for a mouthful of beef and bread.

Nearly as strong, but slightly shorter-limbed, Bastian crested second, and paused at the patchwork tan and pale sight greeting him. He tossed a pebble at the easy target, quickly settling his chin on crossed arms.

Starting at the unexpected tap, Billy scowled amusedly over his shoulder, "So help me, if you make another 'full moon' comment…"

"I like all your phases," Bastian affirmed with a less-than-innocent tilt of his head.

Billy grinned, and shuffled back to lay in front of him, nearly face to face. "Well, why don't you haul _your_ ass up here; and we'll practice some lunar navigation..."(1)

"Promise?" Bastian stretched toward the curling lips.

A quick succession of loud BOOMs from the west echoed around them, causing both to jump slightly. The startle was just enough movement to upset Bastian's already extended grip on the rocky edge, allowing gravity the upper-hand. Instantly sliding down, and grasping desperately at the rough vertical, he managed only to bounce off a small outcropping instead, sending him into a wild spin toward the water and rocks below.

"Bastian!" Billy called and reached uselessly after him, clambering to his feet as he wondered whether and how quickly he could leap without landing on the unintended diver. He watched helplessly, as the accelerating Bastian wasn't quite able to turn or curl himself in time to avoid hitting the water flat on his back.

The resulting, sharp clap that echoed up the narrow cove was enough to launch him without any additional thought. Noting that Bastian didn't quickly surface, Billy angled himself toward the edge of the deep water, slicing feet-first into the still-choppy pool.

Opening his eyes even before his descent had stopped, Billy pulled himself through the sheath of surrounding bubbles, looking up and around for any sign of Bastian. Seeing nothing contrasted against the bright surface, out of the corner of his eye he noted movement nearer his depth. Kicking toward it even before recognizing the form, he swam all the faster on realizing Bastian was drifting slowly _down_ ward, still awkwardly extended and completely still.

He didn't slow on reaching him, just slipped one arm across Bastian's chest, pulling him close, and turned urgently for the surface. Hair matted like seaweed around his head, Bastian lolled silently against him as the taller man turned them toward the narrow strip of sand in one corner of the inlet. "I've got you," he gasped alone.

Billy didn't bother getting them entirely clear of the water, pulling only Bastian's upper body into the dry before turning him on his side, and holding the exposed arm above his head. "Breathe, Bastian! Get it out."

Noticing how bright red Bastian's entire backside was, his concern deepened when there was no expected coughing, spitting, or in fact anything more than the barest twitch of the fingers. Bending over to give and get some reassurance through eye contact, Billy was briefly pleased at the blink and jaw movements, before realizing the terrified look in Bastian's wide eyes, and the gasping effort with no matching chest rise and fall to indicate success. _He wasn't breathing._ "Fuck!"

Kneeling back to check for signs of blood or breakage, and finding none, Billy hoped instead it was simply the wind knocked out of him. And _that_ he could do something about.

"Hang on, Bastian," he instructed, rolling him onto his stomach, and lifting him by his ankles. Absent the usual cough reflex, two lungs worth of sea water poured out onto the sand. But still no sign of breath.

Billy lowered him almost onto his back, kept hold of his ankles, and gently began pushing Bastian's bent knees in toward his chest, and extending them out again, like a bellows at the blacksmith.

Making no sound or other movement, Bastian's eyes grew only more frantic as Billy reached with one hand to cup his head and keep his airway open.

"I've got you. You're just winded," Billy assured—trying not to show his own fear. "This will help start your breathing again. Just try to calm down, and breath in through your nose." He smiled with more confidence than he felt, and modeled the intentional in and out he hoped would help.

Despite all the effort and encouragement, Bastian's eyes began to flutter and roll back.

"Bastian!" Billy couldn't help but cry out. "Sebastian? Stay with me!" He pumped more quickly, and with more pressure on the forced outbreath–bruises and impact blisters be damned.

Aside from a few brief sputters, Bastian's chest, limbs and coloring showed no signs of returning to usual.

Desperation growing, Billy opted for a more direct breathing surrogate, kneeling over Bastian and blowing air directly into his mouth.(2) After several sloppy rises and falls of Bastian's chest, he took a quick break to check his progress, continuing to stroke Bastian's hair from sheer nervous connection. "Come on… Please?"

Nothing at first; but then Bastian gave two weak wheezes.

Billy's despair cracked into a wide smile, cradling his head and taking his hand. "That's it! Slow and steady."

Bastian rasped twice more, his eyes searching unfocused.

"What? Don't speak, just breathe…"

The eyes turned slowly toward the encourager, finding, smiling and whispering, "Again… please…"

"'Again'? What? On the lips? Why, you…!" Billy laughed in ecstatic relief, scooping his patient into a sitting position against him, well short of the stifling hug he wanted to give. "Focus on your in-and-out for now, you bastard. Had me scared half to death, and you were just fishing for kisses…"

They sat for several minutes, as Bastian's breathing grew stronger despite occasional coughs, his sore body began to move again, and his color returned—at least everywhere that hadn't taken the brunt of his watery impact.

"Can you stand?" Billy finally asked, squatting to support this next test of recovery.

"Stiff," Bastian coughed, gripping Billy's ready hands, but needing the standing man to do most of the lifting. Upright, he nodded shortly that he was good on his own, though he refused to let go of one strong hand.

"We should get you back. We'll go 'round." No way he was letting Bastian even try climbing the bluff; and the water route might be easier on stinging skin, but was even longer and full of further drowning danger.

Bastian didn't argue, simply took Billy's offered arm and, under watchful eye and ready assist, waded through the shallows to the winding, gradual incline. Insisting that pushing through the discomfort was better than stretching out the exertion, Bastian and escort eventually reached the top, only Billy glancing toward the harbor for absent signs of the at-fault cannon fire.

"Best not to settle; you'll cramp up entirely," he encouraged. "Can you?"

Clearly pained, but uttering no complaint, Bastian nodded, gripping his companion all the tighter.

Helping Bastian don his longer shirt like a loose, low-contact gown, Billy bundled their other belongings in Bastian's top, and pulled on his own trousers and boots.

Moving slowly and with a few grunts and grimaces, they finally reached the workshop's wildside yard, where Ribs came barking out to greet them. Just behind him, they heard a whispered shout, "Billy?! Price?!" as a short _Walrus_ sailor came around a stack.

"Muldoon, what are you doing here?" Billy asked, not pausing their stiff progress.

Also ignoring the four-legged herald, Muldoon stopped short on seeing Bastian cough into his sleeve.

"Muldoon?"

"What's wrong with him?" the man pointed, backing away as they continued toward the building behind him.

"He's injured. Give us a hand…"

Muldoon's wariness only grew, as he kept his hand out before him. "You sure he's not ill—the cough, his color…"

Passing him by with a judging indignance, Billy all but jeered, "He fell, into water; just sore and choked up a bit. What's the matter with you?"

"You ain't heard? O' course," he and the dog fell in grudgingly behind the pair. "I was sent looking for you."

"Captain's looking for me?" Billy worried.

" _Everyone's_ looking for you."

Billy stopped short, turning back to the nonsense being shared; his face shared his confusion and displeasure.

"To make sure you was alright, and in case you was needed."

An even deeper look of annoyance, as Bastian leaned heavily against him, trying not to express his diminishing strength.

Anxiously watching only Bastian, Muldoon provided a little more information. "One of the _Perseus_ crew was found on the beach; the others was chased back to their ship and driven off at cannon-point. Did you not hear?"

More concerned with the man on his arm than the man on his nerves, Billy turned and worked hard not worsen Bastian's pain by picking him up. Just short of doing so, he explained, "What do you think knocked him off the cliff?"

Muldoon wasn't sure how to respond or proceed as Billy moved all the faster through the workshop to the small cargo pulley that was Bastian's best bet for reaching the loft.

"Go," Bastian encouraged, as the sought-after sailor helped him onto the pallet. "I'm good."

"Help me," Billy seemed to ignore the dismissal in favor of handing Muldoon the rope, and pulling his belt and knives from the bundle. "Pull."

As Bastian floated away above them, Billy called after him, "Get comfortable, and stay put. I'll be back…"

Not pausing lest some resistance descend once they tied off the lift, Billy tried a "stay" command to the dog as well, motioning Muldoon to follow him toward the camps. He couldn't ignore the clear summons from the crew, and couldn't very well let Muldoon head back alone, strangely fearful of Bastian's condition on top of larger, pre-existing misgivings. For now, he needed to attend to the men, in order to safeguard and return to Bastian.

* * *

Bastian pulled himself as much as walked toward the interior railing, never sure whether Ribs' barking signaled good or ill, especially just past nightfall, and certainly not when he himself was in no shape for trouble. That the decidedly happy sounds had ended abruptly didn't give him much comfort.

There were no lamps with, behind or below, as he'd not moved much to light them, or do much of anything else, since Billy and his wary shipmate had headed off mid-afternoon. Several great bonfires up the beach had not yielded the usual clamor of accompanying celebrations; and their light certainly didn't usefully reach this far. And his master had ridden off in search of a supper to impose himself on, muttering about his worthless waste of an apprentice, after Bastian had shouted down about being ill, unable to move, much less make a meal or ferry him to one.

No, Bastian found himself sore, nearly hobbled, and entirely unable to see what had roused and silenced his one line of ground-level, furry defense.

Thankfully, only a familiar baritone called up from directly below, "Bastian?"

"I'm here," he sighed, dropping his shoulders, and kicking down the rope ladder.

"I've given Ribs a nice bone," Billy explained as he felt his way to it, and climbed. "And left a bottle at Gillespie's door to keep him occupied as well."

"You take good care of them…"

"Only so far and long as that serves the true master of this establishment. How are _you_?" he smiled, carefully feeling his way to the still figure, and taking its face in his hands.

"I'm alright," slow moving hands settled atop the caring touch, as they both stepped closer.

"I don't have to see you to know you're lying," Billy smiled with some concern, turning the face up, as if it would help in the darkness. "Where does it hurt?

Bastian let out a long breath, charged truthfully and reminded that there was no risk in admitting a shortcoming here. "Everywhere."

Leading with a quick kiss to the forehead, Billy suggested as he turned them back to the water's end of the loft, "Let's see what we can do about that." Glad for no cough, but not comforted by Bastian's slow steps, he followed patiently through the quick maze of canvas walls. "Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Have you eaten?"

"Just some rum for the… discomfort."

Expecting that answer, the couple's more mobile half explained, "It took longer to get back than I'd hoped; but I've brought a chicken and potatoes. If you're up for it, we'll eat first."

Bastian didn't agree, nor did he question the implied additional sequence of activities. He simply squeezed Billy's fingers as they stepped into the open-sided area, where starlight allowed some dim vision.

Setting down the bag slung over his shoulder, Billy immediately lit a ready lantern, and turned to assess the afternoon's physical consequences a little more clearly and closely.

The living area was sparse and crowded as ever, with the only change from earlier in the day being a few crates stacked like a long table in the center, draped with several folds of motley cloth. The shirt he'd lent for their return hike was draped over another rail. And Bastian stood without a stich of clothing on, his posture and expression communicating the pain that even that freedom left him with.

Setting down the now harsh-seeming light source, Billy pulled a chicken leg and a boiled potato from his bag, handed them to Bastian, and helped him shuffle closer to the lamp. "Let me have a look."

As Bastian slowly chewed a few bites from the delivered dinner, Billy turned him, and tried not audibly react: from calves to shoulders, Bastian's back was one large, mottled bruise, as though he'd been thoroughly beaten up and down his nearly six feet height. And that unpleasant background was spotted with what looked like small cuts and swollen blisters.

Unable to provide any comfort through touch, Billy planted a kiss in the tangle of hair above the visible reminder that water is not soft, saying, "I'm sorry."

The apologizee turned with an unexpected speed, grimacing for the effort. "This wasn't your doing, not your fault. _And_ you brought us supper." He stuffed the drumstick against Billy's mouth, intending to stop, to steer away, and to share.

Billy smiled for the spirit that showed, took a bite, and nodded him toward the makeshift bed. "If you'll keep eating, I also brought a jar of something for your back—a little trick I picked up from a wise man not too long ago."

Taking a bite of his own, Bastian let Billy help him lay stomach-down on the makeshift bunk.

Billy began a generous application of the soothing salve starting on Bastian's neck; no pressure, just coverage. "Sorry, no mint today."

"I'll let it go this once… What happened in town?"

"Apparently, the reason the _Perseus_ was so short-handed was that they'd lost a number of men to consumption."

"The sailor on the beach," Bastian deduced, showing he'd been paying attention earlier despite his injuries. He shifted his eating arm up onto the bed for its turn.

"He was found while we were swimming; and with so public a death, the full story came out quickly. The crews rallied to drive them out of port; we heard the warning shots from four ships."

As if cued by the fresh memory, Bastian flinched and cried out. Careful as he was being, Billy's hand had ventured too close to a shallow split in the skin along the spine.

"Sorry!" he soothed, letting silence hang as he paid closer attention to his handiwork before continuing. "If they hadn't gone willingly, the _Walrus_ and others would have given chase. Instead, I got pulled into the search for everyone they'd visited came by here, checking people and burning anything they'd handled."

"Two of them were here, arranging supplies," said the businessman drowsily, continuing to relax under the care.

"I know," Billy admitted quietly, _almost_ not slowing his ministrations. "That's why I'm glad you stayed here and didn't engage more today. Lest you catch it, or your cough, color and weakness raise suspicions."

No reaction from Bastian to being left behind earlier or at risk now; a good sign.

"In fact, I was thinking… Given that you'll be a little worse for the wear the next few days, resting so you'll heal faster… Well, it might be best that we go see Doc Howell, tonight, lest rumors spread about your health. He can confirm you've not got it, and might be able to help more with your fall."

Still no immediate fight, as his slathering moved down the slightly less red legs.

"And, with better relations amongst the crews, I wonder if it's not a good time to make clear that you're not to be messed with, that you're good more generally, and… that you're spoken for. What do you think?" Billy had stopped breathing at this last suggestion, that they move Bastian into a new light in the community, and do so for them _together_.

No response, and no change to the steady breathing. A good sign?

"Bastian?" He moved around to the lantern lit side for what insight Bastian's face might provide.

Eyes closed and mouth adorably ajar, the patient had clearly given into clearly needed and care-induced slumber. And with no indication of at what point he'd stopped listening.

Sighing and smiling, Billy drew a few stray strands off the face, and ran his hand over the peaceful brow. "Perhaps tomorrow then..."

* * *

 **NOTES**

1\. Technically, this formal technique wasn't published until 1763; but I'm presuming earlier sailors could have used the term for some calculations involving the moon. At least enough for a randy metaphor.

2\. While mouth-to-mouth rescue breathing also wasn't formalized in medicine until much later in the 18th Century, I am presuming those near water especially might have stumbled onto elements well before it became mainstream practice.


	17. Winds of Change

_**Black Sails:**_ **Surprise**

by mirwalker

* * *

 **17: Winds of Change**

"What?!" Bastian barked at the man who'd watched his entire exchange with the tanner.

The _Intrepid_ sailor was immediately more contrite than Bastian would have expected after such an obvious provocation, much less such a direct challenge. "I didn't mean any offence. Just deciding whether and how to pay my respects, is all."

The younger man's eyes flickered at the unexpected response—some mix of deep sadness and quick anger. "Fuck you," was all he could muster before turning to his next errand.

"I'm sorry," the occasional chandlery customer persisted, catching up as Bastian loaded the empty pot into his cart. "I didn't know Bones or the others well; but who here didn't know of and admire the _Walrus_ and her men?"

"What do you want, Mister Garrett?" Despite the apparent good intent, Bastian had no patience for this latest in a recent line of newly friendly friends to look at him with pity after years of spite. He took no pleasure in the expanded circle of well-wishers, even when months before most of the seafarers would have simply ignored him at best. Their recent acceptance, and the condolences that now facilitated, were simply reminders of the loss. His _second_ such loss—with Hornigold holding the storm-ripped black as proof, they said. And after such a summer of cherished closeness…

"Nothing," the bearded man said quietly, honestly. "Just for you to know, they're missed. And'll be remembered." He tipped his head respectfully and stepped away, blending back into the busy street.

Against his every effort, Bastian's eyes filled and tried to overflow for all to see. He made as if to adjust something with Nero's reigns, as his breath stuttered against the upswell of emotion. Barely able not to break down, he buried his face against the horse's neck, for what little privacy that offered his pouring grief.

For the sailor's brief kindness and this opportunity for public shame brought Bastian's curse into renewed clarity: The sea had done far worse than take him years ago; no, it had played a longer, crueler game. It had spared him when it took so many others—allowing him to bear the stigma of others' suspicions, and trapping him on the island with their and his own fears. Caged in the open, he'd then found a champion amongst his gaoler pirates, one who had finally _seen_ him, and respected him, even loved him. And permitting all that promise, the patient sea had then stolen Billy from him. Again.

Rather than killing the younger Bastian quickly and being done with it, the merciless sea had freed him, fed him suffering, fueled his hopes, and finally snatched away the heightened happiness. He'd survived every fickle current, until ten days earlier, news had arrived and the tide had gone out yet again, taking with it everything worth living for. Just look at today: selling piss for change, suffering the pity of strangers, and naught but a bloated, drunken bastard awaiting his return. _Fuck you, sea and sand and sky and shitty town. Fuck you all._

Nero snorted and stomped, setting off toward home without instruction or permission—whether to escape the snotty master, or to save him, was not clear. Either way, the boy plodded along dutifully; and the infernally cheerful dog could take over his care soon enough.

* * *

Every man aboard had seen a storm at sea before; you couldn't be long afloat before running from, around, or through some foul weather. And simply by nature of being in the midst of this one, they had survived every previous encounter. But this was no everyday squall; and given the chance at pardons for all their crimes, they'd instead chosen to follow the man who steered them directly into the heart of this ship-killer. And so, with Flint tied to the wheel above, and their small world pitching and shuddering toward whatever end, the surviving _Walrus_ crew sat or clung silently below—awake, alert, and alarmed in their shared second thoughts.

Their boatswain sat in their midst—visible to all, with clear eyeline and path to the deck hatch or other needed direction, and doing his best to project some confidence through his displeasure. Their reality demanded some concern, of course; but his focused expression sprung not from the crew's tenuous fate—or rather didn't stop there. Billy _was_ worried for his brothers and their collective investment in the vessel, never mind their lives. But they at least had one another's company should the ship go down, just as misery loved.

What sat most heavily on his heart in perhaps its last moments, was that fathoms above and leagues away, Bastian would remain alive, but alone. Again. Billy would have failed to return a second time, worsened now by months' more investment into their association. This would be an amputation, not a break; all the greater failure for their deeper fondness.

As the ship pitched and shuddered, Billy wondered if this what the _Danger_ 's last moments had been like: damp, cramped, loud, sharp—all the senses overloaded with dire possibilities. What had Bastian done during his test of faith and bravery? To what or whom had he held? Where had his thoughts or prayers turned in those dark moments before the hull gave way to the open, angry sea? For, whatever he had done, repented or promised, Bastian had come through, unlike so many others. And so, Billy knew he must as well.

Thus how hard his spirits crashed when the deadly winds that left them on the surface and mostly whole, then left them entirely—abandoned and stranded in the middle of nowhere with a sufficient supply only of tension. Those who hadn't drowned would be taken by drought, yet another wave of victims sacrificed to Flint's obsessive dreams. And whether he died from starvation or a stark raving captain's pistol, Billy's brief reprieve from the storm would still sea-widow a chandler's apprentice who deserved better. So, while giving thanks that he'd never found a way to get Bastian onto this damned crew, he focused on advocating for those men with the more sensible of the senior officers.

And then, lest anyone connected to the _Walrus_ dare believe that luck favored more than fucked with them, their gusty salvation promptly served them up to a maroon queendom hell-bent on remaining hidden. Sitting in a cage next to their newly met Irish informant, Billy saw no opportunity for escape save Flint's ultimate self-sacrifice—holding a knife to her cruel throat long enough for at least some of the sailors to reach the ship and flee. While still very risky, the plan solved two persistent problems at once: a third cheat of certain death for the cursed crew, and certain death for its cursed captain. Martyred, the notorious pirate leader could be less a threat to his men, while his memory became even more useful to the fight against England than the headstrong man himself.

Then their new friend's big eyes and long hair reminded Billy of another, absent piece of his priority puzzle. Perhaps wiser than continuing the fight without Flint's supernatural knack for thwarting foe and friend alike, he wondered whether besting fate here wasn't an opportunity to change course entirely. Whether the past month hadn't been the universe suggesting less-than-subtly that returning to the fight and challenging England was not worthwhile. Especially since Flint now seemed convinced to strike down England, not just scare it off.

In fact, Billy recalled something Bastian had said the day after his nearly fatal fall. He'd shared it while shuffling down the beach toward the Walrus camp the next morning, shirtless and stiff, but intent on demonstrating his health and strength to the sailors and entire town. In his only moment of complaint through the whole affair, Bastian had glanced at the heap of ashes where the cleansing Perseus bonfire has been, and grumbled: "Even the dying can get away…"

Billy had been struck less by the actual works, and more what they implied, that everyone could escape New Providence except Bastian. In the moment, Billy had been caught up in his pride for Bastian's recovery and resolve, and his slight concern than Nassau would not perceive the same positives. Looking back, seated in his own literal incarceration, he was humbled by how Bastian viewed the pyre and the halting march to Doc merely as further test and evidence not of his own power, but of his continued entrapment. How his slightly younger world had been drawn much more narrowly than had Billy's, by sea, wind, and men's suspicion. For all his struggles, Billy had at least moved about and seen some of the world; perhaps Bastian's dry, sandy cell seemed harsher for its inescapability.

And if Billy could survive this latest trial, perhaps he should instead return and take Bastian away from Nassau—at least to see some other sights, if not to escape it entirely. Perhaps this month's lessons were that success was in abandoning Flint and New Providence to their delusions, not fighting with or for them ungrateful as they were, and ready to sacrifice even loyal sons for their own gain or foolish pursuits.

But for now, for his men, Billy would continue to challenge Silver to see through Flint's spells and willingness to offer them up. His faith in Flint was thinner than ever; as that old connection continued to fray, it strengthened his loyalty to his brothers, and his devotion to his Bastian. Should he pass this latest test, what he wouldn't do for them…


End file.
